


The caged Hawk

by asamandra



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clint never joined Shield, F/M, M/M, Mutilation, Prompt Fill, Torture, forced assassinations, prisoner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 53,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asamandra/pseuds/asamandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint never joined SHIELD. He's the prisoner of a shady government organization who forces him to kill people and once or twice a year he's allowed to leave his cage for a job...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt on avengerkink: [[AU] Gen(?), Imprisonment, Forced assassination, Clint never joined SHIELD](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/16524.html?thread=36776076#t36776076)
> 
> Clint never joined SHIELD and got his life straightened out. (Perhaps Bucky was retrieved earlier and filled that role?) Instead, he ended up getting caught by a shady government organization, the WSC, etc... and imprisoned. But whoever caught him knows what they have, so every so often, they let him out and give him an assignment. He has a couple of days to complete it and turn himself back in. They tell him that if he refuses or if he runs, they won't kill him...they'll just cut his hands off and leave him to rot in prison.
> 
> Clint hates it, being imprisoned and then forced to kill whomever he's told. But maybe once or twice a year, he gets a few days of freedom, gets to shoot his beloved bow, gets to explore a little bit and enjoy the feeling of the sun on his face, so he does it. The thought of being crippled terrifies him and he doesn't want to die, so he does what he's told.
> 
> Meanwhile, SHIELD/the Avengers are trying to figure out who this assassin is. They can't trace him, no one seems to know who he is, and when he does show up, they get intel that his behavior is strange--like standing on a beach for six hours watching the waves, or going to an amusement park, or making himself sick on carnival food, etc... They finally manage to catch him, and not only does he not fight, he begs to be allowed to go back.
> 
> The Avengers find out why and then have to decide what they're going to do with an assassin who's being forced to kill upon threat of torture.
> 
> Bonus for Natasha and Bucky advocating for Clint, because hey, look at the things they've done.  
> Extra bonus for Clint being given a second chance.  
> Super bonus for the Avengers saving/protecting Clint when those who had him try to get to him.

**15 years earlier**

With his last glittering arrow exploding under the roof and a bright smile on his face, Clint bowed and left the center ring. The audience was swept off its feet. _Like always_ , Clint thought. There was a reason why he was one of the main acts. He grabbed the towel he kept stashed behind the entrance and wiped his face before slinging it around his neck. 

“Good show, kid.” Rusty, the clown said and patted his shoulder. 

“Thanks, man.” He smiled at the older man and headed out of the big top to change and secure bow and quiver. On his way out of the tent, he went to the water bucket, filled the cup and drained it in a few swallows. The spotlight was always so hot and he was really sweaty and thirsty when he finished his routine. 

“You outdid yourself.” He turned at the sound of Barney’s voice to find his brother grinning at him. “Did you hear them? They’re still cheering for you.”

“Nah, they’re just laughing at Rusty.” Clint grinned back at his brother.

“Come on, give yourself some credit. You were great tonight.”

“Thanks.” Clint swiped over his face once again. 

“Okay, go change your clothes and come back when you secured your bow.” Barney slapped his back and walked out into the dark. Clint drank another cup of water before he left the big top and headed over to the trailer he shared with his brother, wondering what Barney wanted. He hoped that it wasn't about Buck having another job. He hated that. With a yawn, he opened the door and unstrung his bow, coiling the string and tossing it on the bed, along with his bow, and started to strip out of his clothes. He thought about a shower, but they still had to prepare everything for the next show tomorrow and he decided against it. After wiping away the worst of the sweat with a wet washcloth, he pulled on jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie. Just as he slipped into his first sneaker he froze, sensing that something was wrong. It was too quiet. Usually they could hear the sounds from the animals nearly constantly but now it was quiet. 

Clint went to the door and opened it just a bit, but it was dark in the corner with the trailers. All of the carnies and performers were at the big top, and no one wasted electricity lighting empty trailers. 

“Barney?” he called carefully. Maybe it was one of his pranks, waiting around the corner in the dark to jump out and scare him. He’d done it before. But no one answered.

“Barney, this is not funny,” he said aloud, trying to sound like he wasn’t bothered. Then he heard a noise on his right and he turned quickly. For a few seconds he thought about climbing back into the trailer and locking it, but then he’d never hear the end of it from his brother. Maybe it was just one of the dogs or cats that always found their way here whenever they set up. He slowly crept to the corner of his trailer and glanced around. But there was nothing there. With a sigh, he started to turn back when he suddenly felt hands on his shoulders. Someone yanked his arms behind him and dragged him back. Clint yelled and began to struggle to try and get free, but whoever was holding him was strong, really strong. And then another hand was pressed over his mouth, muffling his yells. Adrenaline flooded his body and he kicked back, trying to get the guy who was holding him to drop him. Clint was fast; he only needed a moment free and then he could take off. There was a metallic rattle and he felt metal cuffs close around his wrists. He tried to scream again, actually beginning to panic. For a moment, the hand across his mouth disappeared, only to be replaced with duct tape.

Suddenly there was light in his eyes and he blinked against the brightness, blinded by it. He tried to turn his head, but the guy behind him grabbed him by the hair and held him still.

“Is this the right one?” he asked. The guy holding the light held up something next to Clint’s face, looking at something, maybe a picture.

“Yes, that's him.”

“You sure? This kid?”

“Boss says it is. Besides, I wouldn't want to be in front of the business end of his bow,” the second guy chuckled.

“Come on, get him in the van.” Out of the darkness, a third voice spoke up. Clint felt his heart sink as he realized he probably never stood a chance of getting away. The light clicked off and the guy grabbed his legs, the third man coming forward to wrap his ankles with duct tape. They carried him away from the trailer. And while Clint still twisted his body and tried to scream, no one was there to help him. When he saw one of the men open the back doors on a black van, his struggles got even more desperate and he managed to twist himself violently enough to fall out of their grip and land on the ground. It hurt, and before he could do anything else, they picked him back up. 

“No!” he tried to scream one last time, but the tape muffled it. He shook his head but the men grabbed him again. As they carried him around the back of the van, what he saw made his blood run cold. There was a cage, like the kind used to carry dogs. The third man opened the cage door and the two men who held him shoved him in. Clint thrashed with all his might, but in the end he was a tied up fifteen year old kid, and it was almost laughably easy for the men to force him into the cage. When he was finally in, they closed the door and sipped a padlock onto the door. The sound of it clicking shut was the worst thing Clint ever heard. 

_This couldn't be happening_ , he thought. A bunch of guys had just kidnapped him and he had no idea why. He still struggled and kicked against the bars that surrounded him, but then one of the guys took a syringe and came over to him. He shook his head and tried to move away as far as possible, but the cage was small and he had nowhere to go. The man grabbed his arm, shoved the baggy sleeve of his hoodie up, and jabbed the needle into the meat of his arm. The drug hit his system almost immediately. He tried to resist, but by the time the guys were climbing into the front of the van, he was already losing consciousness. His last thought was that he forgot to close the door to the trailer and anyone could go in and steal his bow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 and 2 revised by Moiraine now!!

**2 years earlier**

“Phil, the Portland, Oregon Police Department just reported a homicide they believe to be an assassination.”

“Let me guess. A single arrow through the eye,” Phil replied calmly.

“You’ve got it. Barnes has a quinjet warming up. I want you on this as soon as your ass hits the tarmac.” Fury’s voice was hard. “I want this guy, Phil. Find him.”

“I'm on my way, sir.” He left his office as quickly as possible without running.The quinjet was already prepped for takeoff on the runway and Barnes and Romanoff were already there, strapped in and waiting. He sat down behind the co-pilot’s seat and buckled up.

“What do we have, sir?” Barnes asked when he was seated. He wore his shades, and Phil could only see him in profile, but the curiosity in his voice was apparent. Not only was he the best sniper S.H.I.E.L.D. ever had, unofficially he was regarded as the best in the world. It was hard for him to admit how good this guy was. Their mysterious assassin took shots that would have been nearly impossible with a rifle and he made them with a bow. He’d shot an arrow into a man's eye socket half a year ago with an accuracy he never would have imagined a bow could achieve, one that even Barnes would be hard pressed to replicate with a rifle and scope. Phil knew that Barnes was anxious to finally find out who the unknown archer was.

“A murder victim with an arrow sticking out of his eye socket,” Phil told him.

Barnes nodded. “Then let’s go,” he muttered, and within moments they were in the air.

About an hour and a half later they landed at the heliport behind the precinct. Phil and Romanoff disembarked first, leaving Barnes to finish shutting the aircraft down and follow when he was done.

“My name is Agent Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D.” Phil said to the officer stationed at the front desk. “I'm here to talk to your captain.” The officer looked at his badge and then he called his superior.

“You can go in,” the officer said and pointed in the direction of the captain's office. The bold lettering on the door introduced the captain as Christian Donner.

“Agent Coulson. What can I do for you?” the older man asked. He stood up and shook Phil’s hand over the desk, and then gestured at the chairs in front of his desk and they sat down.

“We've heard that you have a rather unusual homicide. What can you tell us about it?”

“I don't know why S.H.I.E.L.D. is taking an interest in this case, but it is unusual. The victim was found is his garden with an arrow sticking out of his eye.”

“The left one?” Phil asked and Donner nodded.

“I guess you know who our guy is?” Captain Donner asked and Phil just nodded. “But you’re not going to share. Okay, I get it. There's only one point where you can look into this garden, but everyone of my experts says it's a difficult shot with a rifle. With a bow? They say it's impossible.”

“It's not. Not for this guy,” Barnes said as he entered the office. Donner looked at him suspiciously.

“That's Agent Barnes. He's our expert,” Phil explained.

“Fair enough. That’s not the only odd thing, though. We didn’t figure it out until after, but apparently before our killer shot the victim, he spent the day wandering around the rose garden nearby. We have a video from a tourist; his behavior concerned them and after reports came out, they turned it over. It's...it's really strange. You’ll have to see it.” The captain shook his head and gestured to Phil and the other two to follow him.

In the video lab, the lab technician started the video. It was already cued up to where the family had first noticed him. They didn’t always film him directly, but he was usually in the background. He was in his late twenties, early thirties, average height but muscular, with short blonde hair and dressed in black pants, a purple shirt and black boots. He had no jacket and they could see his muscular arms and thick shoulders, the hallmarks on an archer.

As odd as being armed with a bow in public was, the captain was right that the assassin’s behavior was extremely strange. The tourist had captured the man enjoying the flowers like others in the garden, but he seemed more...intense about it. He seemed entranced as he knelt every now and then to take a closer look at some of the flowers, sometimes sniffing at one and smiling slightly. At one point, he looked at the camera, clearly aware he was being filmed, and smiled sadly. What caught everyone’s attention was when he just touched another rose, he drew his hand back violently and then he put it in his mouth.

“We need that rose,” Phil said and the captain nodded.

“It’s already been collected, though forensics says there’s little chance of any usable DNA on it.”

In the video, the guy picked one of the roses and walked to one of the benches. He laid his bow beside him and sat there, his face turned to the sun and his eyes closed as if he wanted to soak up the warmth of the sun. He toyed with the rose, occasionally lifting it to his nose, the same sad little smile on his face.

“Sir, please step away from the weapon and show me some I.D.” A police officer approached slowly, one hand creeping toward the sidearm on his hip though he hadn’t drawn it yet. His colleague approached from the other side, obviously hoping to keep the suspect detained. The man looked at the officer who’d spoken, cocked his head and fixed the rose to his belt. He lifted his hands slightly and rose from the bench, but once he was standing, he exploded into motion and grabbed his bow and fled. Phil was sure if he had wanted to he could've killed the two cops before one of them could aim at him, but he chose to flee instead. He was fast and the officers unholstered their weapons and pursued, but Phil already knew they had no chance of catching him. All the three agents could clearly see that this guy was a highly trained operative.

“I assume your officers lost him?” Phil asked and the captain nodded grudgingly.

“He scaled the fence like a goddamn monkey, and by the time the officers went around, he was gone.”

“All right. Thank you for your help. We’ll take it from here.”

“Better you than me,” the captain grumbled and nodded for the techs to pack up the evidence. “I’ll get the rest and once you sign the chain of evidence, it’s yours.”

They left the video lab and in the corridor, Phil turned to his agents. “What do you think?”

“He's very well trained, but they’re right. He’s strange.” She shrugged. “I don’t know who would risk sending out an asset like that.”

“Yeah, who takes time to stop and smell the flowers, literally, on the way to kill someone? That’s just poor strategy,” Bucky added.

“True. Barnes, go to the crime scene and the shooter’s location. See if you can find something the police missed. Natasha, I’d like you talk to the tourist who filmed him. You know what to ask about that the police didn’t know to ask for.”

“And you, sir?” Barnes asked.

“I’m going to the garden,” Phil replied. “Perhaps our assassin left something behind.”

The garden wasn’t far from the station, so Phil chose to walk, hoping to find a clue. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of purple and turned. Incredibly, he saw their suspect walking along the street. He looked at the people around him and touched the buildings beside him, trailing his fingers along them like children were wont to do. Trying to be inconspicuous, Phil followed him, but then the man froze and turned around. He spotted Phil immediately and locked eyes with him. Then he smiled and climbed into a waiting black van without plates. Phil pulled his gun and ran to catch them, but the van had already merged into the traffic.

“Damn,” Phil muttered. He holstered his gun, pulled out his phone, and called Fury.

“He’d gone, sir. Again. But we’re getting closer,” he reported. This was the third time in two years they’d been this close. And every time, the assassin disappeared in a black van.

“So it is our guy. What did he this time?” Fury asked and Phil could hear him sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Took time to stop and smell the flowers.”

“Seriously? Why? How does that help him complete his objective?”

“I don't know, sir. It doesn't make any sense. Barnes and Romanoff are looking for answers as we speak.”

“Fine. Get your ass back to base as soon as they’re done. I need you here.”

“Yes, sir.”


	3. Chapter 3

**15 years earlier**

The room Clint woke up in was white. White tiles covered the floor and walls, white ceiling, white door, white basin, white squat toilet, a fluorescent on the ceiling lighting everything with a harsh glare, no windows, no furniture, not a single touch of softness. As soon as he opened his eyes for the first time, the light stabbed into his eyes. With a cry of pain, he squeezed his eyes shut. There was a clinking sound. He groaned as he sat up, slowly, because he was still light-headed. The clinking sound came once more and he tried opening his eyes again, but this time he shielded them with his hand. He saw as he looked around the room that he was alone, and as he took stock of himself, he could classify the clinking sound. His captors had fastened a manacle around his shoeless right foot and chained him to a ring in the floor.

“Oh, no,” he mumbled. Clint examined the lock, but with no tools, he wouldn’t be able to pick it. That wasn’t good. He tried to rise, but was still weak from whatever he’d been injected with and needed to support himself at the wall. The chain was long enough to reach the wall, but the door was too far away.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Hello! Is someone here?!” He stretched his body as far as possible but the door was still out of his reach.

“Hey! Let me out!” he screamed again. There was no answer and no one appeared. “Hey, come on. This isn’t funny. I want to go home...”

Clint felt dizzy and moved back to the corner furthest from the door. _This is not real_ , he thought. _Can't be real._

After a few minutes, he drew his leg up and examined the manacle again, but he still couldn’t see a way to get it open. _Dammit!_ He ran his hand through his hair and licked his lips. _It's just a nightmare._ He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, he was still there in this white room.

“Hey, you assholes! Open that fucking door and let me out!” he yelled again. “You can’t do this! You can’t just kidnap people!” Again, there was no response in the echoing silence. “Please. I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go.” It was cold in the room and he pulled his legs up to his body and wrapped his arms around them. In the circus, he’d done a lot of dangerous things, but he couldn’t remember ever being this scared. Clint felt his eyes begin to tear up, and couldn’t stop them before one ran down his cheek. He wiped it away angrily, refusing to let whoever had taken him see that weakness.

When he heard a noise from the door, he startled awake. Apparently, he had dozed off without meaning to. A hatch in in the bottom of the door opened and someone shoved in a tray with a sandwich on it. He tried to ignore the rumbling sound from his stomach at the sight of the food. He could reach it if he stretched himself, but he didn't bother. He wouldn't eat anything. It was probably drugged, or worse. 

Clint didn't know how much time has passed, but after a while the hatch opened again and the tray was pulled back out. He shot forward, trying to look through the small hole. “Hey, wait! Wait! Who are you? Why am I here? What do you-” With a loud bang, the hatch closed and he was alone again. “Come on, talk to me. Please?”

When no answer was forthcoming, he sat back on his heels and felt the manacle bite into his skin. It was uncomfortable, he was freezing and his throat was dry. He crawled back into the corner and curled up again. Clint propped his head upon his knees and he started to fumble with the manacle around his ankle again for lack of anything else to do. Eventually, the clinking of the chain began to drive him nuts and he stopped.

He jumped when the room was plunged into darkness. “Hey! Turn the lights back on!” he yelled. It was pitch black, as dark now as it had been bright earlier. “C’mon, please, turn the lights on...” Clint had never been afraid in the dark, but this darkness was too absolute. His breath started to come faster, and he pressed his forehead to his knees and wrapped his hands around the back of his neck. “No, no, no, no, no, no...” he mumbled, curling up into a tight ball and rocking. He started to wail and didn't dare to move an inch. He curled into his corner and rocked with his arms around his legs. Clint didn’t want to fall asleep, but the stress and fear of the last day had taken their toll, and he fell into an exhausted sleep, only to jerk awake when the light came back on.

“Hey!” he started to yell again, though his voice was hoarse and choked. “Come on, guys! Someone talk to me! What do you want from me? Why am I here?” He crawled forward to the door and waited for the hatch to open again.

He didn't know how much time had passed when it opened and another tray was pushed in. On it was a bowl of oatmeal, a carton of milk and a plastic spoon. He stretched and grabbed the tray, but despite his growling stomach, all he took was the spoon and hid in his pocket. He went back to the corner to sit down and wait for his captors to do something, but again nothing happened except that after a while, the tray was removed. A few seconds later, the light went out again and he heard the door open. Clint couldn't see anything, but whoever had entered didn’t have the same problem. Hands grabbed him and pulled him out of the corner.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” he screamed and thrashed, trying to get them to let go. Strongs hands held him fast while others frisked him until they had the spoon. Then he was abruptly dropped to the ground and he could hear hear them walking away. 

“Stop, wait! Tell me why I’m here! What you want from me?! Just tell me!” Clint hated begging, but he wanted answers. It did no good. They ignored him and the door closed with a bang.

“Goddammit! You fucking assholes! Tell me what you want or let me go!” He felt around till he got the wall and crawled back into his corner and as soon as he was settled, the light came back on. “Please, let me go,” he begged quietly.

He couldn't imagine what these people wanted from him. They’d kidnapped him, locked him up, then offered him food, and he had water from the faucet, even if he didn't drink it. But no one would talk to him or tell him why he was here. It would have been easier to kill him at his trailer, so apparently they wanted him alive.

Clint needed a distraction, anything to help him stay calm. Stiffly, he got to his feet and started walking around his cell, as far as the chain allowed him. But the chafing of the manacle around his ankle and the constant clink of the chain drove him to distraction and he gave up after a while.

Time. He had totally lost track of time. There was nothing he could use to mark it. There was nothing to occupy his mind and staring at all the white was hurting his eyes. The only spot of color in the room was him, and he found himself focusing on his clothes, trying to get lost in the patterns of the fabric.

His stomach growled again. He was hungry and his mouth was so painfully dry, but he still refused to drink. He wouldn't let them win.

The sound of the hatch woke him from another sleep he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into. Another tray was pushed into his cell and there was a sandwich on it. “Fuck you, assholes!” he rasped. His voice was scratchy and his throat hurt all the time, but he still refused to drink. It was his only way to offer resistance against his captors.

“Fuck you, assholes,” he mumbled again and again and again, and after a while they retrieved the tray with the sandwich. Clint watched it be removed, and tried to ignore the cramping in his stomach that was getting worse.

The light went out and he laid down on the floor. Even curled up, he couldn’t keep warm. The shivering just made his body hurt worse and he started to weep into the sleeve of his hoodie. He just wanted to go home.

Clint resisted his captors for another cycle of light on, oatmeal in, oatmeal out, waiting, waiting, waiting, sandwich in, sandwich out, light out, but when the light was back on, his need for water was too great to resist any longer. He crawled to the sink and turned the faucet on, cupping his shaking hand under the water and scooped it into his mouth. He drank until he wasn’t thirsty, but it was too much, too fast, and a few seconds later he leaned over the toilet and puked his guts up.

When he could get up again, he went back to the sink and rinsed out his mouth, then drank just a few gulps before he finally broke down in the middle of the room and cried.


	4. Chapter 4

**19 months earlier**

Phil’s phone buzzed in the middle of a debriefing. He glanced at the display, saw that it was Director Fury, and picked it up. “Dismissed, Agent,” he said. “We’ll continue later.” The man stood hastily and left. Phil brought the phone to his ear. “Director Fury,” he answered.

“Coulson, pack up. You’re going to New Orleans.”

“Our boy again?” Phil asked, standing and making his way out of his office.

“Yes. Barnes is waiting in a jet.”

“I'm on my way.” He locked the door and dismissed the waiting agent. While he walked to the runway, he called Romanoff.

“Agent Romanoff, I need you with me. Head to the runway as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be there in five.”

Phil was just strapping himself in when Natasha stepped on door and closed the door behind her. She was still dressed in the standard S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, but Phil knew the pack over her shoulder contained all of her mission equipment.

“Sexy, babe,” Bucky grinned. But when he saw Phil lift one of his brows, he muttered, “Sorry, boss,” and turned back around to prepare for takeoff.

This murder was the same as the others, so their first stop was the precinct the body had been brought to. “Agent Coulson, S.H.I.E.L.D.” Phil introduced himself, showing his badge. “We need to talk to your superior.”

“Yes, sir, this way.” The officer led them upstairs and into the office of Captain Louis Dupree.

The captain didn’t look happy to see them, not uncommon when the police felt like the jurisdiction was being usurped. “What can I do for you?” he asked tersely, traces of creole accent coloring his voice.

“You have a murder victim and we’re taking charge of the case.”

Captain Dupree frowned. “I don’t just hand my cases over. If you have information on who did this, you need to share it with us.”

“With all due respect, Captain, this is above your pay grade. Your help would be appreciated, though.”

Dupree’s frown deepened. “Who did you say you’re with?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D., Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division,” Phil replied, holding out his badge.

Dupree didn’t seem mollified, but he waved the badge away. “I guess this has to do with the fact that my vic has an arrow sticking out of his head.”

“Yes, it does.”

He stood, gesturing them out into the hallway. “Damnest thing I’ve ever seen. Been working homicide for twenty-six years and I thought I’d seen it all. And then this guy shows up in my morgue.” Dupree shook his head, but motioned for them to follow him as he led them to the morgue in the lower level.

“Jenna, these agents want to see Andre Meyers.” The woman, a middle-aged Asian woman nodded and walked to the wall of drawers and opened one. She rolled him out and folded back the sheet, revealing a man, late thirties, blond and with a beard, who looked normal aside from the gruesome wound where his left eye used to be.

“This guy,” Barnes muttered under his breath.

“You know who it is?” Dupree asked.

“We know the same person has been responsible for multiple murders across the world, but we don’t know who he is.”

“A serial killer?”

“We think it’s the work of a paid assassin, but we can’t confirm anything yet.”

“Damn,” Dupree said softly.

“Where did it happen?” Phil asked.

“Bourbon street, in front of The Old Absinthe House, about 11 pm.”

“Did anyone see anything?” Natasha asked.

Dupree nodded. “Meyers went to that particular location once or twice a week. When he left yesterday evening, our perp was waiting on a balcony nearby. Shot him in the face and took off.” He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can't imagine what could've happened if he’d missed. All the people standing right there...”

“If Meyers was his target, then all the other people were safe. This guy doesn’t miss.” Barnes stated firmly.

“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better,” Dupree muttered.

“It should,” Phil said mildly. “It means you don’t have a madman on the loose and you aren’t going to have any innocent victims. Now, I assume you took witness statements?”

“Yes, but it’s not very helpful. The first report puts the killer on a balcony at the Royal Sonesta Hotel. A guest called down to the front desk to report a man with bow acting suspiciously. No one knows how he got there; he wasn’t a registered guest and no one remembers seeing him go through any entrances. The woman at the front desk called the police and sent hotel security up to check it out, but by the time anyone go there, Meyers was dead and our guy was gone. Reports from witnesses on the street say Meyers came out of The Old Absinthe House, the guy called his name, Meyers turned around and got an arrow through his eye. The guy ducked back inside and that was the last anyone saw him.

“We have a lot of witness statements, but it's...” He stopped, sighed, then he continued, “You know how witnesses can be. All we have is that he was between twenty and thirty, blond, average height, and as one rather intoxicated young lady out it, ‘effing hot.’ It's...not helpful. However, most did report that they saw him get into a black van that fled the scene, no plates. We put an APB out, but nothing so far.”

“You won’t find him,” Phil said.

He’d been expecting as much. There was even less to go on than usual. He thanked the captain and the pathologist and led his team back outside the morgue. Then he looked at Barnes and Romanoff.

Romanoff just shook her head. “I have no idea, sir,” she said. “His behavior is definitely odd. It doesn’t...make sense. An assassin isn’t supposed to draw attention to themselves, but this guy doesn’t even try to be discreet. And when it seems like he is, it seems like an accident more than anything else.”

“And then he disappears,” Barnes added. “Without any trace of who he is or where he’s going.”

The morgue doors opened and Captain Dupree came back out. “Do you have traffic monitoring systems here?” Phil asked him.

“Some. Not as much as we’d like..”

“We need to inspect the scene, and we’ll send a request for what footage we’ll need. We’ll also need anything else you have, no matter how unimportant it seems.”

“You gonna let me know when you find this guy?”

“If I can,” Phil said, careful not to make any promises.

Dupree nodded and they showed themselves out. Once again, too late.


	5. Chapter 5

**15 years earlier**

The door opened and a man in a black suit came in. “Stand up,” he ordered as he stood over Clint. 

Clint lifted his head and stared at the man, then reached over and touched his leg. “You're real,” he mumbled in disbelief. He hadn't seen a real person in...however long he’d been here. He’d started to count the oatmeal-sandwich-cycles, twenty nine by now, and he guessed that each one was a day, but he had no idea if they’d been messing his sense of time. Still, he guessed that it had been about a month either way.

“Yes, I'm real,” the man said and laughed cruelly.

“What-?” Clint started to ask, but the man stopped him by grabbing his arm harshly and yanking him to his feet. Clint cried out, but the man just spun him around and pushed him against the wall. Clint tried to struggle, but he was no match for the guy. He pinned Clint’s arms behind his back and closed a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.

“What-?” he tried again.

“Be quiet, boy,” the man snarled and crouched to grab his right leg. Clint yelped when he opened the manacle around his abraded ankle. It hurt. “That doesn't look good,” he muttered to himself and dragged Clint out of the room. Clint limped along beside him, trying to keep up. He was still and sore and his ankle really hurt to walk on.

Outside, everything was just as white as the inside of his cell had been. There were five more doors in the corridor, but only one--Clint's--was open right now. All the doors looked exactly the same. White, metal and with a hatch at the bottom to push things into the room. Presumably he wasn't the only captive here.

The man led him to a waiting elevator and shoved him in. He activated it with a key and Clint's breath sped up as the cabin started to move. He tried to swallow, but a lump had formed in his throat. A few seconds later, the cabin stopped and the doors opened. The man grabbed his elbow and dragged him down another white corridor.

“They had white paint on sale?” Clint couldn't help but say. Sarcasm had always been one way to cope with his fear and he wouldn’t let them see how much they’d broken him.

“Quiet,” the guy snarled again and squeezed his arm hard enough to bruise.

They stopped in front of a door and the man knocked. A woman in a white lab coat opened it and the man shoved Clint inside. The room was white. _Of course_ , Clint thought. It had a tiled floor and walls and in the middle was a medical examination table. On the other wall were a few cabinets and in one corner was a desk. The woman looked at him, took in his ragged and stinking clothes, and wrinkled her nose.

“He need to be stripped,” she said curtly. “He’s filthy.”

“What? No!” Clint yelled, shrinking back, but the man's grip was adamant. The woman lifted one brow before she backhanded him. It wasn't too painful, but he was shocked at the sudden violence of it.

“Quiet!” she snapped and let the man haul him over to the exam table. The man pressed him down on the table with the woman strapping his legs down with broad leather straps. The man undid the cuffs and Clint tried to take a swing, but he was pinned down easily, his arms secured just as his legs had been. The woman handed the man a pair of scissors, and he started to cut Clint’s clothes off.

“No! Please don’t!” he started to plead again and this time the woman grabbed his chin in a painful grip.

“I said be quiet. I don't like to repeat myself. If you open your mouth again, you will be punished. Understood?” she hissed. Clint nodded and swallowed. His pulse and his breath sped up again as the last of his clothes were cut away and tugged off his body.

The man stepped back and the woman started with her checkup. First, she took his vital signs and then collected blood and urine samples. She examined him thoroughly and finished by patching up his ankle. But before she opened the straps, she retrieved a syringe off the counter and brought it over to him. The man grabbed Clint's shoulder and pulled him up enough so that the woman could stab the needle into his shoulder. He yelled when she did. It hurt way more than getting shots at the doctors ever had. She withdrew the syringe and put it aside, picking up a square device a holding up to where she’d just injected him. There was a beep and she nodded at the man.

“He's fit enough to begin training and the chip is working. Give his ankle three or four days to heal completely before you have him do anything strenuous.”

Clint opened his mouth to ask what kind of training she was talking about, but when he saw her glare he shut up immediately. She opened the straps that held him down and the man grabbed him again, cuffing his hands behind his back. He was still naked when the man dragged him back out into the corridor and Clint started to struggle. Being naked only made this more humiliating.

“Hey! You can't do this!” he snarled, but the man ignored him. They walked down the corridor and the suit opened another door. It was yet another white tiled room and Clint was led through what looked like a locker room. There were communal showers behind a wall. The guy led him to one of the shower heads, opened one of the cuffs and chained him to a handle embedded in the wall near every shower head. He ducked away for a moment and came back a few seconds later with a cloth and a bar of soap and handed both to Clint.

“You have ten minutes to get clean,” he said and turned again, but when he didn't hear the water start he looked over his shoulder and cocked his head. “If I have to do it you will regret it.” He added.

Clint finally turned on the water and yelped when the cold water hit his body. He jumped out of the way and waited for the water to get warm, but that didn't happen. “Fucking assholes,” he muttered and stepped under the spray with with gritted teeth.

Behind him, the guy called out, “Seven minutes.”

It was difficult with one hand chained, but Clint hurried to lather himself. The rough cloth scraped over his skin as he scrubbed away a month of filth. When he felt he was as clean as he could get, he turned off the water the guy came back, took the cloth and soap away, and released Clint’s wrist from the handle so he could cuff Clint's hands behind his back again. He started to lead Clint out of the locker room.

“Uhm...I'm still wet,” Clint pointed out and the guy lifted one brow.

“And your point is?” Clint wanted to say something about a towel, but when he saw the glare the guy gave him, he closed his mouth and swallowed. The guy led him, still dripping and shivering, back onto the corridor. Just as he was shoved around a corner, they came across an older woman in a lab coat, but she didn't even look up from the open file in her hands. Apparently it wasn't uncommon to see naked, cuffed prisoners being led through the corridors. They stopped in front of another door and the man opened it without knocking. Waiting for them was a guy with ponytail and black jeans and shirt. Instead of an exam table, this one held a chair that looked vaguely familiar. There were straps dangling off it, though, so he didn’t feel reassured at all. Suit handed Ponytail--Clint had to start calling them something--a folder. Ponytail looked at what was inside, then nodded.

“It's about time,” he grumbled. “Been waiting for this one. Help me get him in the chair.”

“Fuck you, not again!” Clint spat and fought against the grip around his upper arm, but together they shoved him onto the chair, face down. The headrest had a hole in it so Clint’s face wasn’t mashed into it. Also not reassuring. He fought as much as he could, but like in the other room, they strapped him down easily.

“Hold him,” Ponytail said and Suit pressed his hands against Clint's shoulder blades. He heard Ponytail open a drawer and pull something out, but couldn’t tell what it was until a buzzing sound filled the air. A hair clipper.

“No! Stop!” He yelled and writhed as much as he could, but it didn’t stop Ponytail from putting the clipper to his head and shaving it.

“Shut up, kid,” Suit said casually and when Clint didn't stop fighting against his grip, he slapped his naked ass with his hand as hard as possible.

“Ow!” Clint yelped, but stopped struggling. He felt a tear in his eye and tried to blink it away.

When all his hair was on the floor below him, Clint felt Ponytail scrub any loose hair off his neck and then draw something onto his skin. “Okay?” he asked and there was no response from Suit, so Clint assumed he nodded or something.

Ponytail grabbed something from under the table and when Clint heard the new sound, he tried to struggle again. He knew that sound, he’d been with his brother at a tattoo studio when Barney got himself a tattoo.

“No, please, don't...” he pleaded, but got slapped again and this one hurt even more.

Suit kept holding him with Ponytail leaned on Clint’s back and started going over whatever he had drawn on Clint’s neck. Clint felt the needles drive into his skin and he bit his lips to not cry out. It didn't take long and Ponytail stuck something over the tattoo.

“The fuck is wrong with you?!” Clint yelled at them as soon as the let him get up from the table, his hands still cuffed behind his back. “And don't tell me to be quiet! I want to fucking know why I’m here and what you’re doing to me!”

The suit sighed, shook his head and rolled his eyes before he stepped up to Clint and grabbed his arm. “You’re our property and you work for us now,” he said and dragged him to the door. Clint was shocked. Property? What was that supposed to mean? Property like in...owned? Like slavery?

“I...what? You’re nuts! You’re completely insane! I-” Clint found himself slammed against the wall with an arm over his throat and the man in the suit glaring at him.

“You'll get your answers when it's time for you to get them and until then... Be! Quiet! Boy!” He didn't even raise his voice, but Clint knew when it was better to not push anymore. The implied 'this is the last warning' was definitely clear even if not said aloud.

This time, when Suit grabbed his arm, Clint let the guy drag him to the door. He directed him back to the elevator and soon he was back in his cell, but it was different inside. There was a cot in one corner, with a thin blanket folded on top of it. There was a pile of clothes folded next to it. A gray track suit and a white tank top, boxers, socks and sneakers. The guy opened the cuffs and shoved Clint toward the cot. Clint scrambled into the clothes, eager to have something covering his body. Suit waited till he was dressed and then grabbed the manacle. Clint eyed him, wondering if it was possible to escape now, but the man just shook his head. “Don’t even think about it.” He fastened the manacle around Clint’s uninjured ankle and left, the door slamming and locking behind him.

“Oh god, this has to be a nightmare.” Clint wasn't religious but right now he prayed to whatever god was willing to listen to let him wake up and be in his trailer at the circus. With a sob, he leaned against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor. _You’re our property... our property... property... owned... slave..._ “No, please...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to Moiraine for beta reading and some really good ideas! ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**11 months earlier**

Phil was asleep when his phone rang. He woke instantly and reached for his cell on the nightstand, answering and bringing it to his ear. “Coulson,” he said, trying not to slur his words with sleep.

Fury’s voice was flat. “Turn on your TV.”

If Fury was telling him to check the news rather than just give him the situation, then it had to be big. Phil didn’t bother to ask which channel. Instead, he sat up with a silent groan, swung his legs off the bed and headed for the living room, relying on memory of where he was going rather than turning on the light. He fumbled for the remote on the coffee table and turned his TV on, squinting against the bright light of it as he switched to CNN.

While reporting on the tragic death of Senator Michael Ross the day before in San Francisco, the journalist Martin Gould was assassinated shortly after midnight. The murder was caught by Gould’s own cameraman. The footage had been carefully edited so as not to shock viewers, but it still showed Gould speaking to the camera and then collapsing to the ground. Even with the blur, it was easy to see the shaft of an arrow protruding from his eyes.

“Damn,” Phil breathed softly. This was incredibly brazen, even for a man who killed people in busy streets, surrounded by witnesses. “I'll be ready in ten.”

“Barnes and Romanoff are already on their way to you with a quinjet.”

“Yes, sir. I'll let you know as soon as we have something.”

He stepped into the shower, turning the cold water on and counting on the shock to help him wake up. He washed and dried quickly, and as soon as he was dressed, he headed for the roof. There was just enough space for the quinjet to land, something he’d checked before moving in. As he stepped outside, the quinjet was just touching down. The ramp lowered and Phil walked in, taking his usual seat and buckling up as Barnes lifted off. When he was settled, Romanoff turned and handed him a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” he murmured and carefully pried the lid off, draining the cup in a few gulps.

As Barnes piloted, Phil settled back, Romanoff going over everything they knew with him, with Barnes chiming in every so often. It helped Phil focus instead of dwelling on how tired he was. By the time he landed, he was fully briefed and ready to work.

Like usual, he and Romanoff headed inside while Barnes took care of securing the quinjet. Phil had his ID in hand and stepped up to the desk. “Agent Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he said, showing his ID. “I'm here-”

The officer behind the desk nodded, cutting him off. “We were told you were coming. Captain Williams is waiting for you. Her office is on the second floor.” The man pointed the stairs out to them and Phil thanked him quietly. He and Romanoff took the stairs quickly. The captain’s office was easy to find. Phil knocked on the open door and stepped inside.

“Agent Coulson?” A woman in her late forties sat behind the desk and looked up to the two of them when Phil knocked. She gestured for them to enter and sit.

“Yes. And this is Agent Romanoff.” Romanoff nodded.

“I'm Marion Williams. Your deputy director called this morning and said you would be taking over.” She pointed at the chairs in front of her desk for the two to sit down. “I don’t have to tell you what a nightmare this is for my department.”

“What can you tell us?” Romanoff asked, leaning forward slightly..

“Assuming you’ve already seen the news, not much. We recovered no usable prints or DNA off the arrow, and no one saw anything. We’re wondering if there might be some connection-” She broke off as Barnes knocked on the door.

“This is Agent Barnes.” Williams and Barnes exchanged nods, and as there were no other chairs, Barnes leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“You were wondering about a connection?” Phil prompted Williams to continue.

“Yes, between Gould’s death and Senator Ross’s death.”

“Do you have any evidence?”

“No, but the timing and location of Gould’s death is extremely suspicious. There are already going to be theories floating around, but we were hoping to find something concrete.” She tapped a manilla folder on his desk. “What do you know about Senator Ross’s death?”

“He slipped and drowned in his own bathtub. Rumor has it that he was heavily intoxicated, but that hasn’t been confirmed yet,” Phil said.

“Well, I can tell you that’s true. Blood alcohol came back at 1.8.” Barnes whistled softly and Williams nodded. “For someone not known to be a heavy drinker or reckless, it’s unusual.”

“Do you suspect foul play?” Romanoff asked.

“I’m a cop. Of course I expect foul play. But there’s no other evidence that this is anything more than an unfortunate accident. No signs of a struggle. But now with Gould...” She shrugged. “My instincts are telling me there’s more at play here.”

“We’d like to take a look at Gould’s body and the arrow.”

“Of course. We also have the tape from the cameraman and a few tapes from other reporters who were also filming, if you’d care to look over those. Forensics went over the arrow, but it was clean of all DNA except Gould’s.”

Phil nodded. That was expected by now.

They all rose, but before Williams could escort them down to the morgue, her phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said to them and picked up. “Williams.”

“Yes. Really? I see.” She listened to the caller talking. “Okay, thank you.” She hung up and looked at the phone for a moment before turning back to Phil. “It seems we have another witness. She claims that she might have seen the man who killed Martin Gould before the murder.”

“That would be helpful,” Phil replied. Even if the witness only confirmed that it was their suspect, every piece of information was useful.

“She said she was with her girlfriend at a local beach and they saw someone. She said at first they didn't notice him because he just sat there and watched the waves. But then he opened a case he had with him and took out a bow. She filmed it with her phone because she thought it was interesting, and after Gould’s murder, she thought it might be important. She’s giving a statement now and our techs downloaded the video off her phone.”

“Can we take a look right now?” Romanoff asked.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Williams suggested and when Phil nodded, she led them to the stairs and one floor down to the lab.

The room wasn't big, but it was crammed with equipment. The technicians made room as they all filed in. “What do you have?” Williams asked.

“He shows up in two videos. The first time...” The tech had the files cued to the right place and played it. The focus of the shot was on a little boy, about three years old, playing and running around in the sand. But behind him, they could see a man sitting on a rock. “Can you get a better look?” Phil asked.

The technician nodded. “This isn’t CSI, but we can enhance a bit.” He managed to enlarge a still frame of the man sitting on the rock and cleaned it up a bit.

“That's him,” Barnes confirmed. There was the guy sitting on a rock, his legs drawn up to his body and his arms wrapped around them, his chin rested on one of his knees and he stared at the water.

“We’ve got a better shot of him here,” the technician said. He started the second video and this time it was clear that their witness had been deliberately filming it. They could see the man walking down to the water, a bow and and arrow in his hands. When he arrived at the waterline, he nocked the arrow, drew, aimed at the sun and released the string. Then he folded the bow and went back to an open case beside the rock. He put the bow in, closed the case and left.

“Ma'am?” The second lab tech stared at the monitor, frowning. “Is this the guy that killed the reporter?”

“Why?” Phil asked, drawing the man's attention to him.

“Because I’ve seen him before.” He nudged the first tech out of the way and starting looking through files. “I have a good memory for faces and I’m positive that I saw...yes! Here!”

He started a video and sat back so they could all see. “We checked the surveillance videos from Senator Ross's house.” The video from a static camera focused on the street, but with a clear view of the front gate. “We check it for anything suspicious, just to make sure. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but when I saw the guy on the other video...” He fast-forwarded and then slowed it down to normal speed. “There.” He pointed at a man in sports clothes jogging along the street. He looked inconspicuous, like someone who belonged there. He didn't even look at Ross's house, he just passed it. But it was definitely the archer.

“Son of a bitch!” Barnes cursed when he saw him.

Phil was already reclassifying Ross’s death as an assassination in his head as he watched the video clip loop. “Captain, I'm afraid we need the body of Senator Ross as well as all the evidence you have about this incident.”

“We were getting ready to release the body back to the family.” Williams seemed extremely unhappy. “They’re not going to be happy, especially not when we tell them why.”

“Deputy Director Hill will talk to the family and take care of moving the body. Just don’t release it,” Phil said and smiled apologetically.

“Okay.” She sighed, took her cell and typed out a quick text message. “You can pick up the rest of the evidence at my office.”

There were two boxes of evidence waiting on Williams’s desk when they got back. Phil looked over the transfer paperwork and signed it.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Romanoff said to Captain Williams before the three of them left, Phil and Bucky with a box in their hands. They secured them in the quinjet and then Phil turned to his agents.

“Okay. Barnes, head to the senator’s house and then try to find the shooter's location. We need to find something that's going to connect our guy to Ross. Romanoff, interview the reporters and other witnesses who were at the scene. I’m going to see if our guy left anything behind at the beach.”

Phil drove to the beach where the witness had seen the archer and left the car. He walked down to the beach in his suit and dress shoes and the few people around him threw him strange glances. But he ignored them and wanted to go to the cliffs at the other end of the beach where the witness had filmed the archer. He was nearly there when an arrow landed in front of his feet.

“Stop.” The voice behind him was gruff, but soft. Phil froze. “Why are you following me?”

Phil turned around carefully and found the archer standing no more than ten feet away, an arrow nocked and aimed at him. He lifted his empty hands to show that he was no threat.

“You’ve been killing people,” Phil said and the young man cocked his head.

“That's true.” His mouth twisted and he blinked a few times, then added, “I'm sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Phil asked, baffled.

“It's not... I don't want to, I have to. I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Phil said firmly. “You can stop this now, come in with me-”

“No, I don’t!” The man looked upset, but his grip and aim never wavered. “I wish...” He frowned and cocked his head. “When people get murdered, is it the weapon’s fault?”

“I don’t understand,” Phil said, hoping to draw this encounter out, to get some leverage that could help bring the man in. “Why don’t we go somewhere and-”

The man interrupted him again. “Stop following me. I don't want to have to hurt you.” He started to back up and Phil took a step forward to keep pace. The second arrow buried itself in the ground at his feet and the archer had another nocked and aimed almost before Phil could blink. Wisely, Phil stayed where he was until the man slipped behind a dune and then he gave pursuit. By the time he made it back to the road, the man was gone and he caught a fleeting glimpse of a black van racing away.

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose, then took his phone and called Fury. “He got away again, sir. But I think we’re getting closer.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains torture and mutilation!!

**15 years earlier**

Suit shoved Clint, hands tied behind his back, into yet another white tiled room. Inside there was a desk and some filing cabinets. Another guy in a suit sat at the desk. He looked up as Clint stumbled inside. “This is our new sniper 13-98?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the guy answered.

“That’s not my fucking name!” Clint snarled, but the man stood up, came around his desk and backhanded him.

“Did I speak to you, 13-98?” He stared at Clint, who remained silent.

“Answer him!” Suit hissed and Clint shook his head, whereupon he got backhanded again.

“When I ask you a question, you will answer me. Do you understand, 13-98?”

“Yes,” Clint spat when Suit squeezed his arm painfully.

“That's 'yes, sir,' 13-98.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said through gritted teeth and glared at them.

“13-98, you-”

“I said that wasn’t my name. My name is Clint,” Interrupting wasn’t a good idea, but these guys couldn’t take his name away and make him answer to a number instead.

“No, it isn’t. Clint Barton is dead. He was found three weeks ago, shortly after he’d been kidnapped from his trailer. His body was mangled, unrecognizable except for a birthmark, which his brother was able to identify him from. Clint Barton was just another kid who met a bad end and was buried in a pauper’s grave. You are sniper 13-98. You are the property of the SCI. You are here to learn all the things necessary to do your job. And your job will be to kill those people we tell you to.”

“No...” Clint shook his head. This couldn't be real. “No! I’m not going to kill people for you. I’m not a murderer.”

“Not yet,” Suit snickered, but quieted as soon as the other man threw him a glare. “Sorry, sir.”

“I won’t do it,” Clint insisted.

“Yes, I thought you would say that. They all do, at first. Some even think they can stop following orders or even leave. That's why I’ve arranged for you to see what happens when tools don’t learn to stay in their place.”

The man nodded to Suit and together they left the room, Suit dragging Clint along behind his boss. They went to the elevator and the man activated it with a key. It moved upwards, higher than Clint had been allowed to go since he’d been brought here.

They led Clint through a few corridors and when they finally stepped through a door, they were outside of the building in a small courtyard. It was the first time since his capture that he’d seen the sky and for a moment, that caught all of Clint’s attention. He eyed the walls, briefly dreaming of escape, but they were far too tall. Suit’s boss snapped his fingers in front of Clint’s face and pointed to the group of people waiting there. In the courtyard was a wooden block and two more men in suits who held another man, dressed like Clint. He was tied and gagged and struggled against the hold with no effect.

“13-98, meet 12-91. Twice he’s refused to finish a job, and while we don’t like to waste resources, he also attempted to run away. He was a fool to think he could go anywhere we couldn’t find him. Now you’ll see the price you’ll pay for such defiance. Agents.” He nodded to the two men and they dragged the man to the block. His struggling increased and he yelled something into his gag, but they ignored him. A few seconds later he was in position, his arms tied over the block and his body chained to the floor. He couldn't move or get away.

“There are two things a sniper needs to do his job,” Boss lectured in a clinical tone and Clint had a really bad feeling about what was coming next. He tried to move back, but Suit refused to let him go. The agents tied thin leather straps around 12-91's arms, an inch behind his wrists and then stepped back.

“The first thing is his eyes,” Boss said and motioned to one agent. The man drew a slim case from inside his jacket and removed what looked like a scalpel from it. With swift motions, he sliced over 12-91’s eyes, from brow to cheek. 12-91 screamed in agony and Clint saw blood and other fluids run down his cheeks. Clint felt his stomach turn and then he doubled over, puking on the ground in front of him. Suit still held him in place, but gave him enough space so that Clint didn't soil his shoes.

“And the second thing is his hands,” Boss continued when Clint was done puking.

“Please don’t,” Clint choked out. The second agent picked up an axe that had been leaning against the block. 12-91 was still screaming and sobbing, but now he couldn’t see what was coming. The agent centered the axe over 12-91’s left wrist, then lifted the axe and swung it down. There was a meaty thud as the blade neatly severed the blind sniper’s hand and his screaming spiked higher. The agent pried the axe free and repeated the motions. Clint squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head, but he couldn’t cover his ears. Another thud and more screaming that trailed off into sobs made him fall to his knees and retch again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to bring up.

Boss slapped his face until Clint opened his eyes and looked up. Then he looked at the agents. “Bring 12-91 to the infirmary. They’ll patch him up and then throw him back into his cell.”

“Yes, sir,” the men answered and dragged the crippled ex-sniper away.

“Any questions, 13-98?” Boss asked, looking down at Clint.

“Why me?” He licked over his lips and swallowed hard, grimacing at the acid burn of vomit.

“Because you’re the best, 13-98,” Boss said and hunkered down beside him. “And we only recruit the best.” He patted Clint's cheek and chuckled when the boy tried to get out of his reach.

“Your training starts tomorrow. Bring him back to his room.”


	8. Chapter 8

**5 months earlier**

Phil was alone at the range when he felt his phone vibrate. He laid the weapon down, took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the display. Director Fury. Phil secured his gun and holstered it before he left the range and called back.

“Coulson, I need you in London. Scotland Yard arrested a man and facial recognition put him at an 89% match for the archer. SHIELD sent a request for access and you need to see if he has any connection to the assassin. Romanoff is still babysitting Stark, so I’m sending Sitwell with you. Barnes is warming up a jet.”

“Yes, sir. I'm on my way.” Phil hung up and slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. He would have preferred to have Romanoff, but Jasper was a good agent and a better friend. They would be fine.

“Phil,” Jasper greeted him when he met him in the hallway on the way to the hangar. “So, I hear it’s your mysterious archer. What’s he done now?”

“As far as we know, nothing. We got a hit on facial recognition in London, and it’s not him, but it might be a lead. With how elusive this guy is, we need every advantage we can get” Phil led the way to the jet, stepping back to let Jasper board first, Barnes getting them in the air as soon as they were strapped in.

When the jet touched down on a open helipad in London, Phil saw two officers waiting for them.

The older officer stepped forward as Phil and Jasper disembarked. “Agent Coulson?” he asked, looking between them. Phil raised a hand briefly to indicate himself. “Welcome to London. I'm Detective Chief Inspector Branch.” The detective was tall, red haired with a mustache, and in his mid-forties. Phil shook his hand and looked at the other officer. “This is DI O'Malley,” he introduced the younger woman at his side, in her early thirties, blonde and about Phil's height. “We're here to accompany you to the Yard.”

“Thank you. These are the Agents Barnes and Sitwell.” Phil introduced his companions and then the DCI Branch led them to a waiting car. As the three of them slid into the backseat, Phil wished the Yard had sent an SUV, but he’d been in tighter quarters. Hopefully the drive wouldn’t be long. O’Malley slid behind the wheel as they got into the car.

“What can you tell me about the man you have?” Phil asked and Branch turned to look at him.

“Yesterday morning we arrested a few men for armed robbery. We ran their information through Interpol to see if they were wanted for anything else. Shortly after that, S.H.I.E.L.D. contacted us, saying that one of them had alerted your system.” Branch slipped a manilla file from his briefcase and handed it to Phil. “This is what we know about him.”

Phil took the file and opened it on his lap. “Barton, Charles Bernard,” he read, skimming the short biography and longer rap sheet. “American, thirty-five years old. Parents deceased, no college, no high school, history of robbery and assault.”

Phil studied the picture paperclipped to the inside of the folder and saw why the software had picked up on Charles Barton. He wasn’t a perfect match for their archer, but the resemblance was obvious.

“Brother?” Jasper murmured, looking over at the file.

“Most likely. Or it could just be a coincidence. Hopefully, we’ll know more once we get a chance to talk to him.”

“Can we question him?” Phil looked at Branch and the man nodded.

“Everything’s already set. Your organization has very good connections. We got a call from MoD to support you with whatever you need.” Apparently, like most law enforcement officials that S.H.I.E.L.D. stepped over, he wasn't happy about that fact.

“I appreciate that,” Phil said and smiled at him.

O’Malley stopped at a gate and opened it with a keycard before she pulled into the Yard. She idled in front of the doors while they got out and then Branch led the three agents inside and through the corridors to an interrogation room. Phil held out a hand and Jasper dug the slim file on the assassin that they had brought. Phil set it on the table. A couple of minutes later, O’Malley entered, followed by two PCs, Charles Barton between them. In person, the resemblance between Barton and the assassin was even stronger. Phil could clearly see that they were the same height, had the same dark blond hair and gray eyes, and the facial structure was basically the same. There were differences, though. While both men were well built, but where the archer was more slender and muscular, this man was burly and broad. He had tattoos all over his arms and one on his neck and a slight growth of beard. Phil could see a scar from right ear to jaw, sparsely covered by the beard.

The PCs directed him to the chair and when he sat and was secured, Phil took the seat opposite him, placing the closed file Branch had given him on the table on top of his.

“Mr. Barton, my Name is Agent Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Phil introduced himself. Barton didn’t even twitch, just looked at him impassively. Phil nodded to himself and opened the file. “Barton, Charles Bernard,” he began, but was interrupted.

“Barney,” Barton said.

Phil looked up at him. “Excuse me?” He lifted one brow.

“My name is Barney. No one ever called me Charles, not even my parents, except for the judges and lawyers.”

“Barney Barton. Okay. It looks like you've been arrested for armed robbery. That's the...” Phil turned over the page, “...third time, I see.” He looked up at him, but the man didn't move a muscle.

“You’re looking at a very long prison term, Mr. Barton.”

“Maybe. But I’m guessing you want something from me and want to offer me a deal?” He grinned cockily at Phil and Phil just lifted a brow and let one corner of his mouth quirk up in a minute smile.

“We’ll see.” Phil pulled the bottom file out and slipped several photos of the assassin out from it, sliding them across the table to Barton. “What do you know about this man?” Phil asked, laying them out on the table in front of Barton. He didn't look at them.

“What do I get out of it?” he asked instead and cocked his head. For a moment, Phil was struck by the familiarity of the gesture, recognizing from when he’d spoken to the assassin in San Francisco.

“Cooperate and we’ll ask the judge to be lenient. If your information proves useful, a reduced sentence in a nice facility. Don’t help us and you’ll be looking at the maximum sentence on every charge we can throw at you. Your choice.” Phil shrugged and sat back.

Barton frowned, considering his options and then sighed. “Can’t hurt. And who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky.” He pulled the pictures closer and looked down at them. Almost immediately, his head snapped back up. 

“That supposed to be funny?” he spat and glared at Phil, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“What do you mean?”

“Listen, man, if you want to play some sort of twisted mind games, then just put me back in my nice, cozy cell. You know damn well that he's dead.” Barton shoved the pictures away and glowered up at him.

“This photo is six months old, this fourteen and this nineteen.” Phil pointed at the pictures his eyes still on Barton.

“It's a trick. You found old photos and...and...I don't know, altered them somehow.”

“No, no tricks. As you can see, they’re screen captures from surveillance videos.” Phil placed them back in front of Barton.

“And I’m telling you, it's not possible.” He stabbed his finger at one of the pictures. “He’s dead. Believe me, I know. I buried him myself.” Phil could hear a small hint of desperation in his voice.

“Who is he?” he asked.

“He... he looks like an older version of Clint. My brother. But it’s not possible. He died fifteen years ago. We buried him outside of San Diego.” Behind Phil, Jasper pulled his phone out and stepped out of the room, getting the files without needing to be told.

“What happened?” Phil asked.

“What does it matter, he’s dead.”

“Please, Mr. Barton.”

For a long minute, Barton didn’t answer. “You have my file,” he finally said. “Clint and I ran off to the circus when we were kids. It was my idea. Clint couldn’t have been older than eight and he would’ve followed me anywhere.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It was actually pretty good, you know? Carson’s was good to us. We wound up training under some of the performers and eventually had our own shows.” He stopped, expression tightening with a mix of anger and grief. “One evening, after his show, he went to our trailer. He never came back. I found the trailer open and his bow on his bed, but Clint was gone. No one had seen anything. It was like he vanished into thin air.”

“And then?” Phil asked gently.

“I stayed in town. I couldn’t...I couldn’t leave when I didn’t know where he was. And a few days later the cops said they found a body. They...they wanted me to identify him.” Muscles in his jaw twitched. “There wasn’t much left of Clint.”

“How did you identify him?”

“We had the same birthmark on our hip.” His voice was quiet and Phil could see him swallow hard. “Do you think this man is my brother? That he's alive?” A tiny hint of hope slid into his voice.

“You said he had a bow?” Phil asked instead, backtracking to what Barton had said earlier.

“Yeah, they called him _The Amazing Hawkeye_ , the best marksman in the world.” He heard a small grunt from Barnes. “He never missed a target. The crowd loved him and... He built his own trick arrows, you know. His show was spectacular. You should've seen it.” Barton sounded really proud. “Agent, please. I need to know if this is Clint.”

“In all honesty, I don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to find out. If it is, I will let you know.”

Barton swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you.”

Phil rose from his seat began to gather the photos up. The handcuffs securing Barton jerked as he made an aborted move to grab Phil’s arm. “Wait,” he said. “Why are you looking for him? What do you want with him?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Suffice it to say that if this is Clint, you may have helped him.”

“Is he in trouble?”

Phil looked down at the photos in his hands. “That would be putting it mildly.”

“No, he...” Barton shut his mouth, swallowed, then licked his lips and looked up at Phil again. “Listen, I knew it was wrong what they forced him to do and he always hated it. He would never do it if he had a choice.”

“Explain that,” Phil demanded. He specifically hadn’t told Barney anything and if he had thought his brother was dead all this time, he didn’t see how he could know anything. Barton sighed and looked up at the ceiling before he closed his eyes for a second.

“Clint was Buck's trainee.”

“Buck? As in Buck Chisholm?” Barnes coughed.

“You've heard of him?” Barton asked and looked at the other agent.

“Yes, he's a legend in certain circles. No wonder the archer is so good.”

“Agent,” Phil murmured and Barnes shut up.

“Clint. His name is Clint, not archer.” Barton sounded angry. “Like I said, Clint was Buck's trainee and...he forced him to hurt people for money. Clint was twelve the first time and it devastated him every time. He hated it, cried in his sleep for weeks afterwards. I knew that, but we didn't have anywhere else to go, so we stayed. I know that I’ll never get the ‘Brother of the Year’ award and that I should've protected him, but I thought it would be okay. He was a kid. He wasn’t responsible for that. He didn’t want to, but he didn’t have a choice.”

_“I don't want to, I have to.”_ Phil remembered the words. If the assassin was Clint Barton--and that was looking very likely--and he wasn’t keen on violence, then that raised a lot of questions.

Phil sighed and looked at Branch. “S.H.I.E.L.D. will be returning Mr. Barton to the United States. We will be in touch to get the paperwork sorted out.”

The man sighed and nodded. “Do you need anything else?” he asked.

“No, I think what we have is sufficient.”

“What about his companions?”

“They’re all yours.”

Branch followed Phil and Barnes out of the room where Jasper was waiting for them. The two PCs entered the room and uncuffed Barton and then resecured him for transport. As Branch escorted them all to the entrance, one of them went to fetch Barton’s personal effects. O’Malley was waiting for them in the car. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Phil said, shaking his hand before he followed Barnes and Jasper into the car, Barton seated between them.

As they exited the car, Jasper kept a hand on Barton’s arm and Barnes headed to the quinjet to lower the ramp so they could get Barton onboard. Barnes had just opened the small door near the cockpit when Phil spotted a blur of motion to his right. An arrow embedded itself high in the right side of Barton’s chest. All three agents drew their weapons, Jasper crouching down over Barton to protect him from further attacks. Phil had already seen the general area the arrow had come from and was about to pursue when a second arrow flew and pierced his calf. Cursing, Phil dropped, unable to even stand. “Barnes!” he yelled, tightening his grip on his gun. Jasper already had his phone out and to his ear, speaking quickly.

Barnes was racing in the indicated direction and all Phil could do was watch as he disappeared out of sight, hoping that Barton’s cooperation hadn’t cost him his life at the hands of his younger brother.

 

***

 

The archer ran as if the devil himself was after him, his bow already folded and secured at his belt, the quiver tossed aside. Which, Bucky reflected as he pursued, was fairly accurate. You didn’t get to shoot his boss and get away with it. Bucky followed as closely as he could, but the assassin’s moves were incredible. He threw himself legs first over a waist-high wall with a fluid motion and then jumped at another wall and lifted himself up with easy grace. When Bucky made it to the top of the building, he saw the guy jump over a railing and land on the roof of the adjacent building and he followed. The archer—Bucky wondered if he should start thinking of him as Clint—rolled over his shoulder and came up in the same move just to jump a second later down onto another roof. There was a fire escape and the guy jumped on the outside, dropping from railing to railing and was on the ground in a few seconds. Cursing, Bucky copied his moves, but he had to holster his gun first as wasn’t quite as experienced with the moves, so it took him longer. Bucky saw him climb another wall in the same way he had before and this time he tried to copy this move as well. When he was at the top, he saw Clint run to a set of stairs, leaping off the ground, hitting the wall with one foot and kick himself off of the wall to land at the bottom of the stairs in a second, disappearing out of sight the next.

“Fuck!” Bucky swore and followed him. When he turned around a corner he never expected to find that Clint had stopped and was waiting for him. He practically ran into Clint’s fist and Bucky went down. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt a hand at his holster and heard his gun clatter across the ground and out of his reach.

“I told him to stop following me.” Clint leaned over him, his forearm pressed across Bucky's throat.

“Listen, Clint, we can help you,” Bucky panted, playing for time. "Just-” Bucky was cut off as Clint frowned and pressed harder against his throat.

“The next time I'm not going to be able to save him. Stop! Following! Me!” he hissed. He didn't wait for Bucky to respond, just turned and bolted, leaving Bucky flat on his back and gulping air. Pushing himself to his feet, he collected his gun and followed, knowing that at this point there was no way he could catch up. But maybe he could find out something useful. He halted as a familiar sound reached his ears.

The engines of a starting quinjet.

Immediately, he grabbed his phone and called Coulson.

“Report, Barnes,” Coulson’s strained voice answered after half a ring.

“I lost him, sir, but I learned something you’re not gonna like. The guy's who are with him have a quinjet.”

There was a pause. “You sure?” Phil asked. “You need to be very sure about this, Barnes.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I’ve been flying them since I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. I know that sound. They have a quinjet.”

“This is...” Phil stopped, sighed, “Come back. We need to get back. Director Fury is going to want to discuss this development in person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The dash vault](http://www.americanparkour.com/academy/tutorials/268-the-dash-vault)   
> [The wallrun](http://www.americanparkour.com/academy/tutorials/241-the-wallrun)   
> [Tic Tac](http://www.americanparkour.com/academy/tutorials/236-tic-tac)


	9. Chapter 9

**15 years earlier**

Clint had just finished his breakfast when the door opened and Suit came in.

“Get up, 13-98,” he ordered and Clint shook his head, even though he knew the act of defiance would be futile.

“No. I'm not your property, I'm not a number. My name is Clint and I-” Suit backhanded him to shut Clint up. Then the man grabbed his arm in a painful grip and threw him on the floor. Before Clint could react, Suit was pressing a knee into his back and cuffing him again. Once he was secure, Suit opened the manacle around his ankle.

“Listen, 13-98. You will do as you are told or you will be disciplined. If you're not going to be of any use, we can dispose of you now. Do you understand?” The man didn’t even raise his voice, and the cold, flat tone was worse than if he had yelled at him.

“Y-Yes,” Clint managed and Suit picked him up off the floor and set him back on his feet.

“From now on it's ‘yes, sir.’ Whenever someone addresses you, you will call them ma'am or sir, got it?”

“Yes... sir,” Clint muttered. Suit frowned, but he was apparently satisfied enough. He led Clint from his cell to the elevator, using his keycard to activate it. When the doors opened and Suit led him out, Clint looked around. He'd never been in this corridor before. Here the doors were gray and spaced farther apart than usual. They walked down the hall before stopping before one of the doors. Suit looked down at him.

“Today we start with evaluating your abilities at the range and a few simple exercises. The fitness test will follow in a few days, once your ankle has healed. When I’m done with you, you will be the perfect assassin. You will be able to handle any weapon given to you, you will be a master in hand-to-hand combat and you will be able to handle explosives. You will be able to blend into any environment and you will be able to kill without anyone noticing that it wasn't a tragical accident, if necessary. You will kill however, whenever and wherever we need you to. You will be able to move in harmony with your environment. In other words, you will be the perfect weapon. First you will spread fear among our enemies and then eliminate them when the time is right. If you perform well, you will be rewarded. Fail and you will suffer harshly. Is that understood?”

Clint was tempted to say no, but he couldn’t see how being stubborn right now would help. He didn’t want to kill people, didn’t want to learn any of the things Suit was going to teach him, but he didn’t know what else to do. So he nodded and stared at the floor. “Yes, sir.” Suit waited a moment longer and then used his keycard to open the door.

The room they entered was large, long with high ceilings and targets hanging from tracks on the ceiling. Suit uncuffed Clint’s arms and pointed him to a table set at the front of the range, an array of weapons laid out on it. Then he crossed to a bank of lockers set against one of the walls and opened one, taking out a riding crop.

“You may begin with the bow.” Suit pointed at the targets.

Clint picked up the compound bow and frowned as he tested its grip and draw.

“I’m waiting,” Suit said impatiently. “I’m told you were chosen specifically for your skill and I want to see it firsthand.”

Clint licked his lips and debated how best to bring up his reservations. “What is your problem?” Suit snapped. “It’s a bow, same as you used the circus. Get on with it.”

“With all due respect...sir,” Clint started carefully. “This thing is...worthless.” When he saw the wrinkle on the man’s forehead deepen he swallowed and added quickly. “I mean, it’s…it’s not lousy, it’s a good bow for someone else better. But it’s a _compound_ bow and…I’m used to recurves.” 

Suit turned around and went back to the lockers. He opened another door and then gestured for Clint to come over. Clint looked in at the racked weapons and caught his breath. With shaking hands, he reached in and took out three of the recurve bows. He tested the draw on each before finally taking one back to the table. With practiced movements, he removed the sight and the stabilizers, all unnecessary things for someone with real skill.

“Now this is a bow,” he said when he was done. Suit just shrugged and handed him the quiver of arrows. Then he stepped back to a console near the back wall. Apparently, the range was automated and he could vary the distances of the targets from the back of the room.

Clint got in position, took a moment to center himself, and then started shooting. It was amazing to have a bow back in his hands, but it wasn’t challenging. Just nock, aim and release, a simple routine he had mastered years ago. Suit stood at the controls, adjusting the targets further back and varying the heights each time Clint hit a bullseye.

As he got down to his last few arrows, Clint knew he had to try. Suit had given him a weapon. He had to try. So the next time he nocked an arrow and drew the string back, he turned in the movement and shot at Suit. Or at least at the space the man had been a few seconds ago. The next thing he felt was a sharp pain over his right arm and half of his back.

“Lesson number one,” Suit said and moved back in Clint's line of sight, tapping the crop against his leg, “when you're trying to kill someone, don't let your body language reveal it.” Suit took the bow out of Clint's hand, grabbed his arm and turned him around. The crop hit his back two more times and Clint bit his lips to not cry out.

“Lesson number two,” he then added, “don't underestimate me. I've been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. There’s nothing you can try that others haven’t tried—and failed—before.”

Suit gave Clint the bow back and went to his spot at the controls. “I won't punish you for trying to kill me,” he said and Clint glared at him disbelievingly. _Yeah? And what was that with the crop, asshole?_ he thought.

“I would have done the same. In fact, I would've been disappointed if you hadn't tried it. I can't punish you for something I would've done myself.” When he saw Clint look at his arm and the welt forming, he grinned, “But I can punish you for failing.”

“I will keep that in mind… _sir_ ,” Clint gritted through his teeth and took the bow once more to finish off his arrows.

After the bow, he had to shoot with a gun.

“I've never used a gun...sir,” Clint explained, not touching any of the guns laid out.

“I'm here to show you,” Suit said and demonstrated how to load a magazine, chamber a round and how to hold the gun before letting Clint take his first shot. Unlike before, he kept the targets at a fixed location and stood right behind Clint when he fired.

By the time Suit brought him back to his cell a few hours later and chained him to the floor again, Clint had been tested on a broad variety of weapons, guns, rifles, knives, sword, daggers, even with a sling. He was tired and hungry and he felt dirty, but they didn't let him shower again. He hurt, too. He was used to shooting a bow, but the other weapons required different muscles and put different strains on his body.

With nothing else to do, he waited for his food this evening and when the hatch opened he expected the usual sandwich. But for the first time since he'd been taken prisoner, he got something different to eat. Roasted chicken, steamed broccoli and mashed potatoes with gravy. The meat and the vegetables were cut into small pieces so he could eat them with a spoon. He ate slowly and chewed carefully, savoring the taste, and he had to stop himself from licking the empty plate clean. His mom often made mashed potatoes and gravy when he was a little boy and he loved it.

Later, when the light went out and he laid on his cot, he felt tears running over his face and he didn't care if they could see it or not. He missed his mom really badly right now, he missed his brother and the guys from the circus, and to know that he would never see them again was devastating. He definitely didn't miss his father or Buck or Jacques, but he had found friends and sort of a family with the other people at the circus. He felt so alone that it hurt. Clint wrapped his arms tight around his body, curled up in a tiny ball, and cried himself to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**2 months after New York**

“This is your target, 13-98.” Suit handed him a folder. Clint opened it and studied the picture, committing the face to memory. The mark was a big, black man, bald with eye-patch. In the picture, he wore some sort of black uniform and a long black, leather coat. He looked hard, dangerous even..

“Everything you need to know is in the folder.” Suit handed him a duffel bag and his bow case. “You have three weeks.” Clint's head snapped up when Suit said the amount of time. _Three weeks?_ He had never been given that much time. If he could manage the hit in the usual four days, he would have seventeen days. Seventeen days to do what he wanted and he had to admit that he felt a little giddy at the thought. But there had to be a hitch somewhere. They wouldn't give him so much time just because they were feeling generous.

“Yes, sir,” he said and closed the folder, then slipped his case over his shoulder and grabbed his duffel bag with his free hand. He opened the door to the van and stepped out, closing the door behind him. After waiting until the van had disappeared from sight, Clint looked around to get his bearings. He knew he was in New York, but it looked different from the last time he'd been here. There were many buildings under repair and some that were so damaged that they would have to be destroyed. There were still others that were simply gone. Something bad had happened here, but Clint didn’t know what it was. He sighed, irritated that he hadn’t been told. Now he would have to find out on his own, as unobtrusively as possible, just so he wouldn’t stand out.

First, though, he went to the apartment building in front of him and checked the address against the one in his folder. Apartment 504 was available for him and the keys he needed were in the side pouch of his duffel. He let himself in and then headed up to the fifth floor. Clint took the stairs instead of the elevator. He always took the stairs if he could. Inside the apartment, he dropped his stuff and did a quick walk through. The front door opened into a small living room with a tiny kitchen attached. The two other doors led to the bedroom and the bathroom.

Going back to his stuff, he unpacked first, making sure everything was put away and out of sight. Then he took the folder and went to the kitchen. The apartments were usually stocked and this time it was no different. He found an apple in the fridge and grabbed it, taking a bite as he grabbed the folder and headed for the bedroom. Munching the fruit and already reading in the folder, he flopped down on the bed to learn more about his mark.

Fury, Nicholas Joseph. Colonel. Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Status: Active.

Clint frowned. They wanted him to kill the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.? That’s why they’d given him this much time. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Inside the folder, he found his new identity. He was Stanley Jones, junior agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. He found an access card to the New York S.H.I.E.L.D. base. There were also floor plans of the base, which according to his maps wasn’t far from his current location.

Frowning, Clint went to the dresser and looked at the uniform he had put away earlier. He touched the bird symbol carefully. He knew had seen it before, in London, but he hadn’t known what it meant. The man who had chased him had been wearing a uniform with the same symbol.

He put the uniform away again and went back to the folder. He paged through it until he found what he was looking for; the list of agents who were a threat to the mission. Yes, the man's picture was on the list.

Barnes, James Buchanan. Former Winter Soldier. Sniper. Pilot. Partner: Romanoff, Natasha. Status: Active.

Clint turned to the next page.

Romanoff, Natasha. Formerly Romanova, Natalia Alianovna. Spy. Assassin. Codename: Black Widow. Partner: Barnes, James Buchanan. Status: Active.

He scanned the list for the other man, the guy in the suit. The guy with the kind eyes.

Coulson, Philip J. Senior field agent. Handler. Third in command of S.H.I.E.L.D. Status: Active, desk-bound.

Okay, this could be difficult. These guys knew him, had seen his face. He would need a good plan if he was going to avoid getting caught. If Clint had disclosed just how much these agents had seen his face, he probably wouldn’t have been given the mission. 

Closing the folder, he went to the window and looked out onto the streets. It was still daytime and he had three weeks to accomplish the mission. And this was New York.

He stepped out of his clothes and went to the bathroom to shower. When he was done, he looked into the mirror and scratched over his stubble. He thought about shaving, but then, a beard could change his features at least a bit and he put the razor away. He dressed in jeans, a purple t-shirt, a hoodie and Chucks. Getting to choose his own clothes was another thing he loved about missions. He slipped his wallet into his back pocket and left the apartment.

Like in all cities, the streets were busy, but it was different. The people were different. He couldn't point with his finger on it, but it felt different. He walked the streets, committing it to memory, fixing distinctive point in his mind. As he walked, he noticed something odd about the graffiti. Among the normal tags, he kept seeing thank you messages to someone called the Avengers. He wondered who they were and wished, not for the first time, that he wasn’t kept in the dark about everything when he wasn’t on a mission.

After a while of just walking through the streets and studying the buildings and the still visible damage, he got hungry. When he saw a hot dog stand, he smiled. He hadn't had a hot dog in ages. _They_ only gave him healthy food all the time and missions were his only chance to eat junk food. A hot dog would be great right now.

He went to the hot dog stand and bought one. There were a few benches not far away and he walked over to one and sat down. When he took his first bite and chewed, clearly savoring the taste, an old, white haired man sitting on the other end of the bench chuckled. Clint looked at him, questioningly and the man smiled.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you, but I've never seen anyone enjoying a simple hot dog like you.”

Clint couldn't repress a smile. “Yeah. Haven't had one in ages.” He took another bite and looked around at the buildings around him again. Then he turned again to the man. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“I know this might sound strange, but what happened here?” He gestured to the destroyed buildings.

The man's brows rose, nearly hitting his hairline. “You don’t know? What rock have you been living under?”

“More like on top of what mountain. I’ve been in Nepal the last few months. But that's close enough.”

The old man chuckled again. “I guess that explains it. Well, to put it simply, two months ago New York got attacked by aliens.”

Clint stared at the old man, waiting for him to start laughing and say that he was kidding. But the old man just looked at him calmly. When Clint realized he wasn’t joking, he nearly choked on his hot dog. “Aliens? You mean from...from outer space?”

“I know, I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.”

“Aliens,” Clint repeated and looked around at the damaged buildings. “And what…? How…?”

“The Avengers defeated them.” The name Clint had seen scrawled in spray paint. “Ah, you probably don’t know about them either. They’re a team; Iron Man, Captain America, the norse god Thor, a huge giant called Hulk and two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents known as Black Widow and Winter Soldier.”

“Avengers,” Clint said quietly. He’d read the last two names not long ago and he’d encountered the Winter Soldier. They had defeated an alien army. They wanted him to kill the director of an organization who sent agents against an alien army. Suddenly, the three week time frame didn’t seem nearly long enough.

“You okay, son?” the older man asked, peering at Clint with concern.

“What? Yeah, yeah, it's just, you know, aliens.” He forced a smile on his face. “Thank you, but I’ve got to get going,” he said, crumpled the napkin and threw it into a trash can.

Clint bought another three hot dogs and a soda, and then went back to the apartment. He had work to do.


	11. Chapter 11

**14 years earlier**

Clint woke when he heard the hatch in his door open. His breakfast was slid through and he got up to get the tray. Plain oatmeal, a carton of milk, an apple, egg white omelet and tea. He placed it on his small table and started to eat. It was as tasteless as usual, but he ate it quickly. It didn’t get any better when it was cold. He wouldn’t get his next meal until the evening, after he was finished training, and if he performed poorly because he didn’t eat, he would be the only one to suffer. When he was done, he placed the tray in front of the hatch and went to the sink to brush his teeth.

He looked into the mirror and stared at his reflection. “My name is Clint. Clint Barton,” he murmured and swallowed. “I have a brother, Barney. My mother's name was Edith, my father ..was Harold. And I'm Clint.” That was his mantra every morning and every evening. He had to remember who he was, that he wasn’t 13-98.

He heard the hatch again and the tray disappeared. By now, he knew he had about five minutes, so he quickly washed his face and went to go get clean clothes on.

When the door opened, he was ready and dressed. Suit stood outside, waiting, and Clint hurried out to him. He’d quickly learned that any resistance, such as taking his time, was met with harsh consequences. As they walked in silence to the elevator, Clint kept his hands folded behind his back. Suit wasn’t afraid that Clint would attack him, but he’d made it clear that Clint wasn’t even to hint at doing so.

“We changed the course,” Suit said once they entered. “You have seven minutes.” Clint nodded, wondering what this course would be like. He never knew what they were going to throw at him, and when Suit sent him in, he had only a few seconds to orientate. He ran to his left side where he saw the first button, bright red against the all gray of the platforms and railings. He jumped at the first set of railings, folded over the rail, arched his back, passed his feet over his head and folded into a low crouch when he landed, he rolled over his shoulder, pressed the button. He stayed in motion, ran to the next railing and entered the next move with his left foot, grabbed the obstacle, leaned back and passed through the railing, let go with his hand and landed one leg at a time. He hit the next button and continued in stride. He ran up to the wall behind the railing, jumped up and pushed off so he could reach the ledge, then pulled himself up with the help of his feet and found another button. He hit it and continued the course.

By the time he made it back to the starting gate, he was breathing heavily and his muscles burned.

“Six minutes, fifty-five seconds,” Suit said, writing it down on his clipboard. “Your time was acceptable, but you missed one button.”

_Fuck!_ Clint thought, as he watched Suit write something else down. “Sorry, sir,” he said. He knew he wouldn't be punished immediately, but that missed button would cost him later.

Suit made him repeat the course ten times and when he finally stopped Clint's hands, arms and legs trembled violently. He missed another three buttons in the repetitions and he saw Suit write every mistake down.

“Okay, ten minutes break,” Suit said and handed Clint a water bottle. With his shaking hands, he flipped the top open and greedily emptied it. He was allowed to sit on the floor for his break while Suit wrote some notes on his clipboard. When he was done, he nodded at Clint and Clint scrambled to his feet, leaving the water bottle on a shelf.

They left the parkour grounds and went to the range. Clint could see another _trainee_ still in there with his trainer beside him. Clint wasn’t allowed to interact with any other prisoner, or even watch them practice, so he and Suit waited outside. It didn't take long, and when the two finally left, Suit just nodded at his colleague. Clint tried to get a good look at the other guy. He wore the same clothes as Clint, but he was older. Mid-twenties, if he had to guess. The other trainee also had very short hair and a tattoo in his neck, but his read A-22-97.

He was still staring after the other guy when he suddenly felt Suit's riding crop hit his leg. He winced and Suit chuckled.

“Stay focused,” he said and pointed at the range. Clint entered and went to the weapons locker to get _his_ bow and a full quiver of arrows. He slung the quiver across his back, adjusting it until it was comfortable and began to warm up with a standard target.

“Ready?” Suit asked after Clint had emptied his quiver and Clint nodded. He carried his bow to the area of the range with moving targets and exchanged his empty quiver for a full one. At his nod, Suit started the course. It was designed to not only move targets, but it to pop surprise ones out at him. Some of them were marks and some of them were civilians. This was the part of his day that he actually loved. Not only did he get to shoot, but he could relax a little, knowing he wasn’t going to screw up. Thanks to his extraordinary eyesight and ability to respond, he never hit the wrong target. Today was no exception. Suit was pleased, he could tell. It was just this tiny hint in his eyes, but Clint could see it. Clint was happy to see that because it meant he hadn’t earned any more punishments.

After the training with the bow, he repeated the routine with a gun, rifle and throwing knives. Suit was still pleased with his results and made a note on his clipboard.

Normally, after target practice, they went to the gym so Clint could work out for a couple of hours. However, Suit led him to the elevator, and when he saw him hit the button for the medical floor, he felt his stomach cramp up. Clint hated the doctors here. They were all really creepy, poking and prodding at him like he was some kind of experiment. The worst was the eye doctor. Clint was actually afraid of him as Suit led him to that door, he couldn’t help but drag his feet a little.

Clint swallowed hard when Suit opened the door and led him in. He sat down in the chair, gripping the arms hard enough that his knuckles turned white.

“Ah, my favorite patient,” the doctor smiled when he entered and Clint cringed. There was something not right about how eager this guy was to look at his eyes. Suit nodded at the doctor and left the room. Clint knew he’d be waiting just outside the door and that running wasn’t an option, no matter how much he wanted to.

The doctor started his examination, babbling excitedly about Clint's perfect eyes the whole time. He always did that. He’d even mentioned how much of a shame it was that he wasn’t allowed to experiment on them. If behaving was what kept whoever was in charge from letting this psycho do that, then Clint was going to keep doing what he was told.

“I can't wait until you’re retired,” the doctor suddenly said and that brought Clint's attention back.

“What?” he said and blinked at the brightly grinning man.

“I said, I can't wait until you’re retired. They’re going to let me have your eyes then.”

Clint swallowed. “You mean, when I'm dead?” He’d heard of assassins being “retired” with a bullet to the back of the head. Clint didn’t want to die, but that end was certainly preferable to the one he’d witnessed.

The doctor just laughed. “Of course not. I have to remove them before so that I can be sure they’re unharmed.”

“You mean…while I’m alive?” Clint’s hands started to shake.

“Well, they could be damaged when they shoot you. Ruptured blood vessels, bone fragments. That would be disastrous. But don't worry, they’ll be safe.” He held up a device that looked a lot like a small ice cream scoop. Clint nearly puked.

“You want to...to cut out my eyes while I'm alive?” Clint asked and his breath started to come faster as he began to panic.

“Well, it's better than the alternative, isn't it?” The doctor frowned. “Unless you get the special treatment. I know they usually destroy the eyes of failed snipers, but even if that happens, I’ll be allowed to remove your eyes first. How you lose your eyes won’t matter to you then.” The doctor smiled happily again. “Perfect eyes. How often does one get the chance to work with perfect eyes? Hm, I wonder if they’ll me experiment first either way. I do have things I want to try…”

After hearing that, Clint couldn't hold back. He scrambled out of the chair and over to the waste bucket where he threw up.

“Is everyone in here totally insane?” He sat beside the waste bucket and felt bile rise again, retching even more at the thought of how eager the doctor was for this. Suit had opened the door when he heard Clint throwing up and he’d heard the last comment. With a sigh, he made a note on his clipboard. He let Clint finish emptying his stomach and then dragged him down to the gym.

The time in the gym went by in a blur. He managed to do his exercises, but all he could think of was _they want to scoop my eyes out of my head while I’m still alive! Crazy, they’re all crazy. Completely batshit insane!_

He wasn't sure how, but he made it through the rest of the day. He was allowed to shower after he was done in the gym, and not even the cold water could shock him out of the numb feeling that still gripped him. He tried to focus on the book on sambo—the next martial art he would be learning—Suit gave him, but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t even enjoy being left alone for an hour in the small study, if a single hard metal table and chair could be called a study. By the time Suit brought him back to his cell, he was still twitchy and nervous, and when they stopped in front of his door, Clint looked at the man.

“Eleven,” Suit said and Clint closed his eyes. It was his outburst with the doctor that had earned him the extra seven strokes. He wanted to argue that it wasn’t fair, that anyone would freak out after hearing what the doctor had planned. But he had learned very early that Suit didn’t care and that hesitation would only increase this number, so he stripped out of his shirt, let it drop to the floor and placed both hands at the wall, his back turned to Suit. He braced himself and waited for the beating to start. At least Suit never kept him in suspense.

He counted silently and bit his lip to not show any more signs of weakness, and when he was done, Clint carefully bent down and grabbed his shirt.

“Thank you, sir,” he gritted through his teeth and entered his room.

“In a few days, you’ll be evaluated by the higher-ups, and if they’re satisfied with your progress, you will go on your first mission,” Suit told and Clint saw a tiny smile on his lips. Then he closed the door behind him.

Clint could hear the lock turn and sat down at his table, his head cradled in his hands. _They’re going to rip my eyes out of my head while I’m alive!_

He heard the hatch and turned. His dinner had arrived. Slowly, he went to get the tray, groaning when he bent down to grab it because everything still hurt and the beating hadn’t helped. He looked at what he’d been given: chicken, broccoli, rice and a thin, watery sauce. _Disgusting!_ he thought, but ate it anyway. He'd lost track of how many times he'd been given this to eat, but it seemed like it was all he could remember having for dinner. When he was done he went to the mirror, brushed his teeth and looked at himself. “My name is Clint Barton.”

That night, he had nightmares worse than the usual ones. He dreamed of failed missions and laughing men in dark suits who cut off his hands and spooned out his eyes. He woke up screaming.


	12. Chapter 12

**2 months after New York**

Clint quickly amended his first thought about this mission being difficult; it was going to be impossible. Not only was his mark well protected, but he spent nearly all his time on a flying fortress called a helicarrier. Because of his cover, Clint knew he would have no problem getting onto the S.H.I.E.L.D. base, but getting onto the helicarrier, killing his target and getting away…. He was going to need a very good plan.

Outside of the building, he found a motorcycle to match the keys on the keyring he’d been provided with. He decided to scope out the base before he reported for duty on Monday and drove to the base. It was a little bit outside of the city, but not too far away. There was still enough traffic around that he could watch without being noticed. The complex was huge and there were hundreds of people. That was good. Even though he would be the new guy, he’d be able to blend in to some extent. As long as he looked like he knew what he was doing, people never questioned him, not even law enforcement. He doubted the lower ranks of S.H.I.E.L.D. would be any better.

But then Clint got lucky in a way he almost never did. That evening, when he was back in his apartment to work on possible plans, he turned on the TV. Back at base, he rarely got the chance to watch TV, and when he did, what he watched was always carefully regulated and controlled. So when he was on a mission and the safe house had a TV, he used it. A lot of what he saw was weird and he didn’t understand it, but it helped him feel a little bit more normal. Having it on in the background could let him pretend that he was just some guy living on his own.

When the show he was watching ended, he switched to the news, wanting to be able to make small talk and not be caught off guard by something he should know. He was half paying attention when the word “S.H.I.E.L.D.” caught his ear and he looked up to pay closer attention. Apparently, New York was going to hold an official commemoration in two days for all the people who died during the attack—the police officers, the fire fighters, all the other first responders and the civilians. There were going to be a lot of people giving speeches and even more important people attending...including S.H.I.E.L.D. Director Nick Fury.

Clint just stared at the TV, watching the replayed images from the battle as the news anchor kept giving more information, mentioning that the Avengers would be honored for what they did at the same ceremony. It would be risky. Very risky. There were going to be a _lot_ of people there, including cops, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and the Avengers. Security would be incredibly tight. Clint knew he was good; between his fake identity, his S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, and his skills, he didn’t doubt that he could take out Fury. The real challenge would be getting away after.

It was risky. Very risky. But it was a chance he had to take. It would be much more public than even he was used to, but he had a feeling that no one would really mind.

He looked at his watch. It was shortly after 8 pm. There was still enough time to get to where the ceremony was being set up and check things out. He wouldn’t have a chance to do it tomorrow and if he wanted to survive this, he needed to figure out vantage points and escape routes tonight.

The commemoration was being held just outside where the worst of the damage was. There were already railings and cordons set up, so Clint parked a little way off and walked closer, slipping through the cordon when no one was looking. It was right there, where the main fights had happened. He looked at the buildings, searched for a good perch to hide and to get a clear line of sight, preferably one where he couldn't be seen easily, if at all.

“Everything okay, sir?”

Clint was too well trained to jump at the unexpected voice behind him. He turned and saw a police officer looking at him suspiciously.

“Yeah. I...just wanted to see where it happened,” he said and pointed with his head at the set up. When the man furrowed his brows, he licked his lips and pointed at one of the buildings that was more heavily damaged.

“My brother...he died there,” he said and the officer followed his gaze, then nodded, the suspicion on his face melting into sympathy.

“I’m sorry about that. Seems like everyone lost someone. You here for the commemoration?” the officer asked.

“Yeah. My mom wanted to, but she can’t even bring herself to drive into the city. I wanted to come for both of us, but I wanted a chance to look without all the people that are gonna be there tomorrow. He was my brother, you know?” Clint shrugged, hoping the officer bought the story.

“Yeah, I get you, man.” The officer frowned. “We’re not supposed to let anyone this close. I can give you a couple more minutes, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I understand.” Clint sighed, looking back up at the buildings again ruefully. “I got what I needed. I’ll get out of your hair.”

The cop escorted him back out of the cordon and Clint walked back to his bike, keeping his body language relaxed, hands tucked in his pocket. He swung his leg over the seat, buckled his helmet on, started the bike and headed back to the apartment, where he started to make a list of the possible locations.

Clint spent the next day planning and eating more hot dogs, knowing if he wasn’t careful he was going to make himself sick on them. He drove back to the site and started entering all the buildings around it to search for the perfect place to hide. There was a risk with each building he entered that someone would stop and question him, but he didn’t let himself look lost or confused, confidently walking in and taking stairs and elevators up, nodding and smiling to those he passed. And finally he found it. One apartment building had sustained some minor damage on the side facing the street. The apartments affected were empty so the repair work could be done, and some careless worker had left a door unlocked. From the apartment, Clint could see perfectly and for several minutes he watched as scaffolding and staging was erected. As long as S.H.I.E.L.D. or the cops didn’t set anyone up in this building, he could do this.

The next biggest concern was an escape plan, and again, it seemed like everything was falling into place. The building had an underground parking garage that exited on the back side of the building, away from where the ceremony was being held. Clint could make it down from the apartment and be outside on the street in less than two minutes. It would take security longer than that to secure the immediate area. By the time they started to look for him, he would already be in the subway station two blocks away. There, he could change out of the S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform and into civilian clothing and head back to the apartment to wait until the furor died down.

Back in his apartment, he went over the plan again and again in his mind, committing it to memory. Later that night, he took his bow, checked it, put it in a case with his arrows and spare bowstrings. Then he drove back to the spot he had chosen. He hid the case in the empty apartment so he didn't have to take it with him the next day.

He went to bed early that night. He knew that it was a difficult mission and being tired could lead to mistakes and that was something he couldn't afford. Not with only one chance to achieve his goal.


	13. Chapter 13

**14 years earlier**

Clint was nervous. Really nervous. Two months ago, he’d been evaluated and it had been decided that he was ready for his first mission. It had taken a little while to find the right job for him, but now they had. Today, he and Suit were leaving for a mission. Suit had shown up after breakfast like always, but instead of taking him to training, he took Clint to the study and handed him a folder, telling him he had an order to memorize everything.

Inside, Clint found the picture of a man. He was in his late fifties with an ugly haircut and a mustache. It reminded Clint of the guy in the old porno he’d caught Barney watching once. The man's name was Ken Doherty and he was a lawyer. There was no reason given why Clint was going to kill him, but like he’d been told, he was just a tool. He didn't need to know why he was killing, he just needed to kill. There were other pictures of a building and diagrams and floor plans, telling him anything else he might need to know. Suit stayed with him, answering any questions Clint had, and then helped him figure out what he would need for gear, filling out some sort of form.

When they were done, Suit brought him to a room he'd never been in. It looked like a giant depot, racks and racks of weapons and equipment everywhere, locked behind a sturdy looking gate.

“Whenever you go on a mission, you will requisition everything you need here in writing. You will give it to whoever is here and you will not touch anything until he signs off on it,” Suit explained. An older man who sat at a desk, a mug and a pile of papers in front of him. He looked at the two of them over the rim of his glasses and when he saw Suit, he rose and came to the counter.

“Agent,” he nodded at Suit. “I've been expecting you.”

Suit returned to nod and handed the man the form. The man looked it over. “He doesn’t need much. This’ll take just a couple of minutes.”

The man took the list and unlocked the gate, closing and locking it behind him before he disappeared into the racks. About five minutes later, he came back with a duffel bag and a bow case. Suit reached for them. “Because it’s his first mission, I’ll explain everything so he knows for next time.”

“Fine. Just let me sign this and you can be on your way.” The clerk signed the paper, stamped it and left it on his desk. “When you return, the inventory will be checked against this list and anything missing will need to be accounted for.” Suit nodded and shouldered the bag and picked up the case.

“Follow me,” he ordered curtly. Clint did and they entered another nondescript room with a simple table and a few chairs. Suit set the items down on the table and opened the bag. From inside, he withdrew a wallet and a set of clothes. He held the wallet out to Clint.

“Here's your identity for this mission. You are Oliver Logan, 19 years old from Columbus, Ohio. You have a driver’s licence, a debit card to a bank account and $100 in small bills. You shouldn’t need to buy anything, but the money should be enough to cover any incidental costs in case you do. If you need more money, you can use the card at any ATM. The PIN is 13579. In the bag, you will find any other things you will need for the duration of the mission. For the first several missions, I will be going with you, but in the future your wallet will come with a number to call when you finish your mission. You will get the date, time and location of your extraction. If you do not call or go to your extraction point, we'll send a team to find you. You don't want to do that, believe me. Or if you don’t, ask Sniper 12-91.”

“I believe you, sir,” Clint said quickly and swallowed against the nausea that came with the memories of the sniper.

Suit pointed at the set of clothes. “Get changed and then we can leave.”

“Here, sir?” Clint asked and looked around.

“Do you want a dressing room?” Suit snorted. Clint blushed, but he undressed and put on the other clothes. He hadn't had on a jeans in what felt like ages, so they felt weirdly heavy and stiff. The shirt the other man picked was green. Clint stared it for a long moment before he put it on. Colors. He couldn't stop looking at the clothes. It was wonderful to get to see something besides the monotone gray clothes he usually wore. He picked up the wallet again and slid it into his back pocket.

Suit zipped the duffel bag and handed the bow case to Clint. “Check your equipment,” he ordered. Clint did, find everything he needed inside down to spare bowstrings. Suit nodded when he closed the case and then gave him the duffel bag to carry as well. “Let’s go.” They went to the elevator and when he saw the button for the outside level light up, he got jittery. He hadn't been outside since 12-91's _retirement_ , and while he remembered that incident all too well, he couldn’t tamp down on his excitement. _Outside! Fresh air! Sunshine! Or rain! Whatever!_

When the elevator stopped, he followed the man through a door and they exited onto a small runway. There was a plane waiting for them. Nothing that Clint recognized, but black and sleek and expensive looking. But he didn't take much time to look at the plane. A light breeze brushed against his skin and he drew in a deep breath, opening his mouth to taste it. Real, fresh air, not filtered, sterile and stale. He looked around. As far as he could see, the facility was mostly underground. There were just a few buildings visible and the whole area was surrounded by a fence with barbed wire on top. And outside...was nothing. They were in the middle of nowhere. There were a few mountains in the distance, but there was nothing for miles except dirt.

“Come on, stop stalling.” Suit said and shoved Clint toward the aircraft with his hand on his back. Suit showed him where and how to stow away his stuff, and then he sat down and buckled up. He didn't know how long they flew; he didn't even know what city they were going to and and Suit wouldn’t let him near a window. When they landed at a small airfield, the pilot lowered the ramp and Clint and Suit left the jet with their stuff. A black van was waiting outside and they both got in.

They drove for a little while, entering a city and the van took them to an apartment building. Clint tried looking out the windshield, but Suit kept tugging him back. When they got out, Suit led them up two flights of stairs and unlocked the apartment. Inside, Clint looked over the small space eagerly, excited for anything that was different from his cell. He found a small kitchen attached to a living room with a couch and two armchairs, a bathroom and a bedroom with two single beds.

Suit told him that the apartments were usually stocked with everything he might need and that he could look around to check. Clint opened the cabinets and fridge and found fresh food there. He stared at it for a moment, wondering if he was going to get to eat any of it. Suit only chuckled at Clint’s expression and waved him over so they could get started.

For the rest of the day, they went through the information again and again and formed a plan. They visited the location and found a good spot for Clint to set up his nest. Clint listened to every word very carefully. Suit had told him that the better he performed, the sooner he’d be able to go on solo missions. He would have a week to complete his objective and he would be completely without supervision. That...that was something Clint looked forward to. He knew doing well meant he had to kill people, but it wasn’t like he had a choice. And he wanted it desperately. A week. A whole week. Just him and the mission. If he could accomplish it in one or two days he would have the rest of the week for himself to do whatever he wanted. The thought of running was enticing, but he’d already been given a graphic demonstration of what would happen if he tried and he had no desire to be the example for the next poor bastard.

Clint couldn't sleep that night. The light shining through the windows was too bright, even with the thin curtains drawn. And the noise. There was always noise. People yelling and cars racing and sirens wailing… It wasn’t louder than the circus had been, but since he’d been kidnapped, he’d always slept in absolute darkness and silence. Even if it had been quiet outside, the noises Suit made, his breathing and the rustling with the sheets was annoying as hell. Not to mention his nervousness. Tomorrow he had to kill a man. Another human being. Who was probably sleeping in his bed just like Clint was. And he would never get to know why.

When the sun began to rise, light piercing through the gaps in the curtains, Clint got up and went to the window in the living room. He opened it and watched the sun rise, enjoyed the warmth it already gave off. He sat there for a long time and startled when he heard Suit behind him, telling him to go get cleaned up.

While Clint showered, Suit prepared them a quick breakfast, just some fruit, toast and coffee, with tea for Clint. And then they got dressed and left. Clint had the bow case with him and Suit told him, that usually they would provide a vehicle so he wasn't dependent on public transportation. Clint nodded, deciding not to ask when he was going to learn to drive, and climbed into the waiting car.

They arrived at the location, across from Doherty’s house, and settled into the nest on the roof. Clint was nervous, but his hands were steady. Today he would end a life. He knew what was expected of him and he sure as hell knew what would happen if he failed or disobeyed an order, but all that wasn't enough to make it better. Someone was going to die today and it would be Clint’s fault.

He tried to concentrate on everything Suit said, but it was difficult. His body followed the commands without thought while his mind raced. _Today you're going to end a life. If you don’t do what they want, they’ll chop off your hands and rip out your eyes while you're still alive._.

Once they were in position and Clint had his bow strung, they waited. To sit still and immobile was something he’d had to learn, and as good as he was at it now, it still felt unnatural. He didn’t have long to wait, though. About an hour later, the man left his house and went to his car in the driveway. Clint held his breath as he watched him open the backdoor and put his coat and briefcase onto the back seat.

“Take the shot.” Suit murmured into his ear. Clint drew back the bowstring and sighted down the arrow. He intended to do this as quickly as possible and that meant a headshot. He aimed for one of Doherty’s eyes. It would destroy the brain, killing the man immediately. Just then, Doherty looked up from unlocking his car. Clint didn’t let himself hesitate, just breathed out and loosed the arrow. Instantly, Doherty crumpled to the ground, an arrow protruding from his eye.

Suit patted his shoulder. “Good job, 13-98,” he grinned. Clint didn’t respond, too busy unstringing his bow and packing it into the case. As soon as he was done, Suit hustled him down to the car, moving at a quick, easy pace that Clint tried to match. The whole way down and into the car, Clint felt as if he was walking through cotton candy. Everything was numb and distant, like he wasn’t really there.

After a few minutes, Clint felt that numb edge begin to slide away, “Please, sir. Stop the car,” Clint choked out.

“Why?” Suit snapped, but when he looked at Clint, he slowed down immediately and pulled over to the side of the road.. As soon as the car stopped, Clint opened the door leaned out to throw up on the pavement. He heaved until his stomach was empty and only bile came up.

Suit waited until he’d stopped and closed the door and then drove them back to the apartment. Clint shuffled inside and immediately went to his bed, curling up on top of the covers.

Murderer. Killer. Assassin. That’s what he was. He waited until Suit left the room, and then didn't try to repress the tears any longer. 

He felt so empty and for a long time he just stared out the window. He only realized that he'd fallen asleep when he woke with a start the next morning, Suit snoring beside him in his bed. Clint went to the window and watched the sun rise like he had the previous day.

Stomach rumbling, Clint went into the kitchen and ate a couple bowls of cereal and some toast. When Suit got up a little while later, he simply nodded at Clint. “You did a good job. They will be pleased,” he said, fixing his own breakfast. “We’re staying until tonight. If you want to go out, you can. Just be back by 8:00.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint answered automatically.

That day was the first time since he’d been kidnapped that he ate pizza, donuts and chocolate. And he ate so much of it that he felt sick, but he refused to puke again. He went to the cinema and saw ‘The Matrix,’ strolled through a park and even managed to be back at the apartment at 7.30.

Suit was pleased, both that he’d made it back and that he hadn’t spent much money. They packed their things and went down to wait for the black van.

Later, before he went to his bed in his cell, he looked into the mirror and wanted to repeat his mantra. But then he shook his head. No, Clint Barton was dead.

He was Sniper 13-98.


	14. Chapter 14

**2 months after New York**

 

“So tell me again, Agent. Why I can’t wear my suit to this shindig?” Tony asked, looking at Phil in annoyance. He was already in the suit and Phil bit back a sigh.

“First of all, Stark, this is not a ‘shindig,’ as you so quaintly put it. It's a commemoration for all the people who died during the attack.”

“Pretty sure they’re gonna be giving us medals and stuff, too,” Tony pointed out. “You know, for saving the world from aliens.”

Phil sighed and closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, there will be that. But this isn’t about _you_. It’s for the victims and showing up as Iron Man wouldn’t convey the appropriate tone. Captain Rogers and Agents Romanoff and Barnes will be wearing their dress uniforms, Dr. Banner will be wearing a suit, and Thor will be wearing whatever passes for formal wear on Asgard. I strongly suggest you go put on whatever Pepper has picked out for you.”

“Or what? You’ll threaten to tase me again? Are they even still airing Super Nanny?”

“Tony,” Pepper said pointedly and instantly Tony capitulated.

“Fine, fine,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Have it your way. Just for the record, none of you people know how to have any fun. You got that, J? I’m the only one here who knows how to have fun.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS’s dry, polite tone responded.

Tony continued to grumble, but opened the suit and stepped out of it. Phil sighed in relief and Pepper shot him an understanding smile as she followed Tony out of the room.

“I don’t know how Pepper does it,” Romanoff said once they were gone.

“It’s her superpower,” Barnes grinned. “Should we go check on the others?”

“Yes, though they should be waiting,” Phil replied. “JARVIS, let Pepper and Stark know we’re heading down.”

“Certainly, Agent Coulson.”

The three of them stepped into the elevator and took it down to the ground floor, where the others were indeed waiting for them. Thor looked a bit out of place next to Bruce and Steve, but he was dressed in darker colors, and what little armor Phil could see looked more ceremonial. The cape wrapped around his shoulders was dark blue and much less ostentatious than the red one he usually wore.

“Is everyone all set?” Phil asked. Steve and Bruce nodded.

“I'm not sure I should be there, Agent Coulson,” Thor said, unusually quiet. “It was my brother who led the attack, after all.”

Phil nodded. “Yes, but it was _you_ who helped to end it. The world saw you fighting for them, you should be there. You can show everyone that you and your people are not hostile.” Thor looked him in the eyes for some time, then he nodded. Phil gestured with his cane. “Then let’s get going.”

They only had to wait a few minutes for Stark to join them, and then they drove to the event, their SUVs checked and waved through the security cordon. 

When they got out, Tony, Steve and Thor made their way to the stage. They’d decided the three most recognizable Avengers would sit on stage while the other sat in the first few rows of the audience with other important guests. Phil looked at Bucky and Natasha. “You know what to do?” They both nodded and headed off to do their own security checks before they took their seats with Bruce and Phil. That left only Bruce and he walked with Phil to their assigned seats. Bruce had protested being there at all, thinking there was too great a risk if something went wrong, but the others had convinced him it would be fine.

Phil watched the guests arrive and take their seats. Around them, the streets were already packed with spectators. He kept a constant eye on his surroundings and silently cursed that his injuries kept him from being in the thick of monitoring things. Next to him, Bruce fiddled with his glasses, taking them off, wiping them clean and putting them back on, only to repeat the process a few seconds later. Every now and then he got a glimpse of either Barnes or Romanoff walking around with other agents or police officers, talking to them and pointing some things out.

When they finally came back and sat down, they simply nodded and Phil knew that everything was fine so far. They all activated their comms to listen to the official security channel when the first orator, the mayor, got up and went to the microphone.

The ceremony went as most events like this did. The stage held a selection of people chosen to speak, representing not only the victims families and those affected, but elected officials and representatives of various religious groups. The speeches were mostly short, acknowledging the enormity and shock of the tragedy, as well as the gratitude for those who had saved him, and ending will promises to rise stronger and more united than ever.

Phil tuned most of it out, unable to stop himself from constantly checking his surroundings. The constant chatter through his comm was reassuring that everything was well, in hand.

“Sir, we have something,” one of the agents said.

“What is it, Frederick?” Sitwell asked.

“Facial recognition scanning surveillance video at security checkpoint E4 just had a 98% matched on a C. Barton. I’ve dispatched a couple of agents to check it out.”

“Coulson here,” Phil joined in. “Frederick, tell your men to hold back. Romanoff and Barnes will be coming to take lead.” The two agents stood without a word, walking quickly down the aisle. “Sitwell, I want security increased around the stage, and do it quietly.” Phil glanced at the stage where one of the speakers was giving his speech. Captain Rogers and Stark were both looking at him and he was glad he’d given Rogers a comm before they left and that Tony was patched in through JARVIS. “Captain Rogers, don’t make any sign that you can hear me, but be ready to act. Send backup to the stage. Agent Jameson, I want all entrances and exits at E4 covered. I’m on my way.”

“Knew I should have worn my suit,” Tony muttered. Phil ignored that and stood up, grabbing his cane. Banner looked up at him, but Phil shook his head.

“Stay here. If we need anyone else, we’ll let you know.” If all went well, they could have their assassin in custody in a matter of minutes and none of the people around them would be the wiser. If things went poorly, he still didn’t want anyone to know. A raging Hulk would make that difficult. Phil limped to Frederick's position. As he left, he saw Rogers lean over and murmur something to Thor, who nodded.

“What have we got?” he asked Jameson when he arrived at the checkpoint and looked up at the building.

“Facial recognition pinged on the target near the elevators several floors up. Romanoff and Barnes are already making their way there with backup.”

“Good. Keep anyone else from entering the building.”

“Yes, sir. Also, there’s something you need to know. The target was wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform.”

Phil immediately tapped his comm. “Barnes, Romanoff. Target is wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. Be careful.”

“Roger that.” Romanoff answered.

“Ten-four,” Barnes said and the comm line fell silent again. Phil looked back toward the stage, noting the increase in S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Senator McLellan was on the stage right now and while he remained calm, Phil would like to see the ceremony wrap up sooner than later. He breathed a sigh of relief when the senator finished and stepped down. Any potential targets were still in danger, but they were less exposed off the stage.

It was time for Director Fury to speak and officially thank the service personnel and Avengers for being heroes. The police and fire chiefs stood to one side of the director while Stark, Rogers and Thor stood on the other. Phil counted down the seconds, silently urging Fury to hurry up.

“Get down!” Barnes yelled through the comm. Steve slammed into Fury, knocking him out of the way. A split second later, an arrow buried itself into the floor of the stage. It didn’t land where Fury was standing, but from the angle it had come from, Phil knew the director had been the target. Three more arrows followed almost instantly, and lodged in Thor’s vambrace as he moved to cover Steve and Fury who were still prone on the floor. Chaos erupted, people fleeing the stage as police and agents sprung into action to keep people calm and begin clearing the area.

Over the comm, Phil heard a scuffle, and then Barnes swearing viciously. “He’s escaping,” Barnes panted.

“On my way,” Romanoff said. “I’ll try to head him off.”

“Where is he?” Stark asked, his remote suit forming around him as Thor summoned his own armor. Phil rattled off the address and saw Tony, Steve and Thor head toward to apartment building.

Belatedly, he remember Bruce. “Does anyone have eyes on Banner?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. He’s waiting by the SUVs,” an agent replied.

“Good. Tell him to stay there for now. If he needs to leave, make sure he’s escorted to a safe location.”

“Goddamnit, he’s fast. He’s gonna hit the street before I can catch him,” Barnes snarled.

“On my way. The rest of the Avengers are coming to you. I want all other agents to stay out of the way,” Phil ordered. He drew his weapon and made his way around the building, Jameson following him, knowing that Barton would most likely come out from a less conspicuous exit.

“I see him,” Stark said. “Gimme one s-”

There was a sudden, jarring silence from Tony as his comm cut out.

“Iron Man is down! I repeat, Iron Man is down!” Sitwell said suddenly.

“What happened?” Phil asked. How the hell had Barton managed to bring Stark down with a bow and arrow?

“EMP arrow,” Stark croaked. “Fucker had an EMP arrow!”

Phil grimaced. That meant Barton had been prepared for who he might face. That raised all sorts of unpleasant possibilities behind who was employing the assassin.

Then a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent holding a bow burst out onto the street and Phil pushed the thoughts away until after they’d captured Barton. “Cut him off!” he ordered and Jameson obeyed immediately. Thor and Steve came around the corner in front of Barton and he immediately changed direction, only to falter when Barnes and Romanoff cut him off.

Barton turned, looking for a way, chest heaving as he panted and eye wild. He reminded Phil of a trapped animal. Barton looked around again and his eyes locked with Phil’s. Phil saw the moment Barton gave up. The desperate expression on his face faded between one blink and the next. Without a word, he carefully bent down to place his bow and quiver at his feet, and then stepped back and lifted his hands. Still holding Phil's gaze, he nodded and mouthed, “Do it.”

Phil was shocked. He’d never had a target just give up before, just stand there when they were caught and ask for death.

But before he could respond, Barnes had already approached Barton, forcing the assassin to his knees and then to the ground as Romanoff cuffed him. Barton didn't struggle. He kept his eyes on Phil, even when Sitwell and the other agents came to lead him away.

Phil let out the breath he’d been holding and limped over to the building to lean against the wall.

“Sir?” He looked up at Jameson. “What do you need us to do now?”

“We need to get this area cleared safely. Coordinate with the other agents.”

“Yes, sir.” Jameson turned and left, leaving Phil with his thoughts. He looked at the street where a chase lasting years had finally finished. The assassin had been apprehended with no harm done. Phil smiled at a job well done.


	15. Chapter 15

**12 years ago**

Clint felt sick to his stomach, but he didn’t regret it a bit. Finding this fair, Oktoberfest, had been the best thing he’d encountered yet.

Although, he was pretty sure that him being here was a bit of a fluke. Back at the base, Suit had suddenly switched all his lessons to having Clint learn very basic German, not enough to be conversational, but just enough to get by. A week later, they were boarding a quinjet on their way to Munich. It was Clint’s first time out of the country, and he couldn’t help but be excited. He pushed away the thoughts of what he would have to do, forcing himself to enjoy what he could.

The target this time was Christiane Hausner, a woman in her late fifties, with short brown-gray hair and sharp features. She was a judge on the International Crime Court in Den Haag and was visiting her family. The instructions in his file explained that it needed to look like an accident, which explained why he hadn’t been provided with a bow or any type of gun.

It wasn’t as difficult as he feared, though. Hausner was a notoriously reckless driver. Her driving history was filled with speeding tickets. All Clint had to do was find a way to get to her car and sabotage it. Out in public or at her family’s home would have been too risky, but everyday Hausner drove to a nearby hospital, to spend several hours visiting with her father. Clint waited until she’d gone in, then snuck into the parking garage, found her car and got to work.

When she left the hospital that day, her brakes failed, and Hausner met her end in a tragic accident.

With his mission successful, Clint had been left with several days to himself, and that’s when he discovered what the locals called the world’s largest fair.

It was huge. He wasn't interested in the tents where they played music and served beer. No, he headed straight for the rides. And there were so many of them. He loved the Olympia Looping, a steel roller coaster with five loops, and the Ferris Wheel. He ate himself through all of the traditional foods like roasted chicken, grilled ham hock, grilled fish on a stick, cheese noodles, potato pancakes and some spiced cheese spread called obatzda. And then there was all the candy. He ate so much that he had to throw up, and he didn’t even care. Who knew when he would get the chance to do this again? And it felt like being back in the circus. It reminded him of the circus, of his brother and his friends. He almost expected to hear Barney or Trickshot calling his name.

Munching an enormous gingerbread heart, he went to a shooting gallery and won a stuffed tiger. He gave it to a small boy who was impressed with his accuracy. The boy grinned broadly and ran with a “Dankschön!” back to his mother.

He spent three days at Oktoberfest, going from ride to ride, from food stall to food stall and enjoyed the rest of his week as much as humanly possible.

When he saw the black van waiting for him when he returned one evening, he felt once again the dread in his stomach, the urge to just run. But, like always, he saw 12-91's face and heard his screams in his head, and with a last glance back at the apartment building he’d been staying in, he got in the van.

“Good work, 13-98,” Suit said and Clint handed him his wallet and the keys to the apartment. He saw the rest of _his_ stuff already in the van.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You know the routine,” the man said and handed Clint a small plastic cup with a screw-on lid.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled and blushed. He hated it, really, really hated it, but when Suit lifted a brow, he swallowed and urinated in the cup with the man watching. He closed the lid and placed it in the plastic bag Suit held out for him. Suit plucked out a few hairs and put them in another plastic bag and then Clint rolled up his sleeve so the man could take a blood sample.

“Okay,” Suit said when he had all his samples and the man behind the wheel started the engine.

The van drove them out of the city to the waiting quinjet and he boarded it after Suit, sat down in an empty seat and buckled up. The pilot closed the ramp and the aircraft took off, but they only flew for about an hour before they landed again. Clint looked up at Suit, but the man ignored him and went to the hatch as soon as it was open. They had to still be in Europe, but where specifically he didn’t know.

“Don't move, 13-98,” Suit snarled when he saw him shift in his seat.

The man stepped out and waited. Clint craned his head around so he could watch. After about ten minutes, a van arrived. Suit talked to the men in the car, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. They laughed about something and then they went around to the back of the car. It took them a few minutes, but then they carried something into the quinjet. And Clint paled. It was a cage and in it was a small girl, unconscious, tied up with duct tape over her mouth. She was six at most and her dress was torn and dirty.

“Problems, 13-98?” Suit asked when he saw Clint's horrified glance.

“Sir, that's...that's a _kid_. Why-”

“I think it would be better if you shut your mouth before you say something you'll regret, 13-98.” Suit's voice was low and threateningly, and Clint knew he should keep his mouth shut, but right now there was a kid in front of him who needed help. He opened the seat belt and rose.

“This is wrong. You can't kidnap children!” Clint spat and glared at the man. He took a step in his direction, but then Suit grinned evilly.

“We can and we will do whatever we want. And now... Sit! Down!” Suit glared at him, clearly expecting Clint to follow orders, but Clint just swallowed hard and stood his ground.

“No. This isn’t right. You can't-” he started, but didn’t get much further before Suit moved. He tried to backhand Clint, but the time when Suit could take him by surprise was over. Clint saw the move and ducked away. In the same move, he slammed his fist on Suit's solar plexus, driving the air out of his body and forcing Suit to double over. As he went down on one knee, for a split second Clint could see something on the back of his neck: a barcode and series of letters and numbers, starting with an X. Just as he tried to kick Suit out of his way, he felt a sting on his arm and saw the copilot with a syringe. His world went blurry and he slumped down.

“That was a huge mistake, 13-98,” he heard Suit rasp as he blacked out.

Clint gasped awake when someone threw cold water over him.

“You awake, superhero?” Suit mocked, sneering down at him. Clint was in his cell and all his furniture was gone. It was as empty as it had been when they brought him in. His foot was chained to the floor and he closed his eyes, trying to keep the mounting terror at bay.

“Anything you want to say?” Suit asked and Clint shook his head.

“No, sir.”

“Okay, then. Get up, turn around, and place your hands behind your back,” Suit commanded. Clint debated resisting, but decided against it. His punishment would be bad enough without adding more reasons to hurt him. He rose and turned around. When he felt Suit's hands on his, closing cuffs around his wrists, he swallowed hard, but didn't move. The man opened the manacle around his foot and then grabbed his arm, dragging him out of the cell.

They took the elevator up and Suit led him out into a small yard. Clint knew this place. This was where they had punished 12-91. There was a frame in the yard and a few men in suits waited for them. Clint froze up, muscles locking up, and he had to be dragged the rest of the way forward, his gut tight with fear and his mind screaming out denials, that this couldn’t be happening.

“No, please,” Clint whimpered, trying to twist away. But when the other men came over to grab him, he closed his eyes and let them drag him to the frame. They undid the cuffs and chained his wrists to the corners of the frame. One of them tied a blindfold over his eyes and gagged him.

After a few minutes, he heard shuffling of feet and the gasps of other people. Children.

“Recruits,” he heard a new voice say, “meet sniper 13-98. He disobeyed orders and attacked his handler. Now you'll see the price you'll pay for such defiance. Agents.” Clint startled when he felt someone behind him, grabbing the collar of his shirt and ripping it open. The rest of his shirt was cut off and he felt the air on his naked torso. His breathing sped up and he shook his head desperately, protesting behind the gag.

Clint heard the sound he registered the searing pain biting into his skin, tearing it open. Blood began to drip down his side. He shrieked into his gag when he felt the leather of the whip hitting his back again and more skin tore. After a number of lashes, too many to count he lost consciousness, but they just poured water over his head and continued when he was awake again. His throat was raw from screaming and his pants were soaked with blood and water.

They woke him up again the next time he passed out and the whipping continued. He’d never felt pain like this and he just prayed for the torture to end. He didn’t care if they killed him, he just wanted the pain to stop. When they opened the bindings that held him upright, he collapsed to the ground, where he stayed unmoving.

“Bring him to the infirmary. They'll patch him up.” Rough hands picked him up under his arms and started to drag him back inside.

“Consider this your first strike. Second strike and you’re out. You should've sat down,” Suit said as he followed them inside. “You should thank me for convincing them not to give you the punishment you really deserved.”

Clint couldn’t respond and he passed out again as soon as they were inside.


	16. Chapter 16

**2 months after New York**

Phil watched the video feed of the assassin. Barton had been stripped down and searched, given a set of scrubs, and then placed in a cell. The cell had a bunk, but Barton had chosen to sit cross-legged on the floor, his back against a wall. His eyes were closed and his hands rested on his knees. It would have almost seemed like he was meditating, but Phil was sure the archer was completely aware of what was going on around him.

He had decided to let Barton wait for a while, to wear him down a bit, but so far he wasn’t showing any sign of worry or fear. Phil knew Barton was going to be a tough nut to crack, more so because he was a sniper. But he wasn’t ready to start with harsher tactics yet. Phil would never admit it, but Barton’s behavior just before he was captured didn’t sit right with him.

While he waited, he reviewed the what little new information they had on Barton. Barnes had been the one to strip him and his report had been troubling. Phil pulled up the pictures they’d taken. Barton had a lot of scars, something to be expected of an assassin. But the majority of his scars appeared to be torture marks, most of them clearly old and long healed. If they were right about who Barton was, then a good deal of those wounds would have been received when Barton was still a minor. And then there was the barcode and number tattooed across the back of Barton's neck. Phil had seen people get those, thinking they were cool, but he strongly suspected that wasn't the case here.

Between that and Barton’s easy acceptance— _request_ , even—of death, Phil was beginning to see a picture he didn’t like very much.

Phil sighed. He was about to get up to go stretch his legs for a few minutes when he heard the door and he saw Steve enter the surveillance room.

“Anything happen?” he asked and Phil shook his head.

“He hasn’t moved an inch since we put him in there.” He gestured toward the screen. Steve studied the monitor for a moment, then nodded.

“How long were you after him?” he asked, sitting down next to Phil.

“Just about six years. One of the strangest cases we’ve had.” Phil gave Steve a quick rundown of the years long pursuit, knowing that Steve had already been briefed on Barton and just wanted to hear Phil’s thoughts.

“That is strange,” Steve murmured, still looking at the motionless man on the screen.

“Understatement of the year.”

“So what happens now?”

“Now we wait and see if he’ll talk.” Phil rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I have a feeling it’s going to take a while before he cracks.”

 

***

 

Clint sat in the cell they had locked him in. He half closed his eyes and forced himself to remain calm, but he kept an eye on his surroundings. When they had arrested him instead of shooting him, Clint couldn't believe it. After all that he had done, they hadn’t killed him? He couldn’t understand why. He had tried to kill their boss, would have killed their boss if the plan hadn’t gone to hell. And then it hit him. They wanted information. It wouldn’t matter that he didn’t actually know anything, they would torture him to get it.

He had really expected—hoped?—that they would shoot him, that it would finally just be over. So he hadn't struggled when they shoved him into the car, when they put a hood over his head, or when they’d dragged him out of the vehicle after a short drive. He hadn't struggled when they took away his clothes, when they searched him, when they took pictures, fingerprints and blood, when they put him in thin scrubs and locked him in this cell. He hadn't screamed or yelled even though he wanted to.

This, though? This made everything worse. _They_ knew that he had failed his mission. Clint knew that he had to go back, even though he knew he’d be punished for his failure. If he didn't go back, they would come and get him. And then... He shuddered inwardly and felt his heart rate speed up again. If he managed to get back, they probably would only whip him and then put him back to work, right? Suit had said they didn't want to waste resources. He could convince them that it wasn't his fault, that he’d tried to do what he was supposed to. If he could do that, they would only whip him and not...not punish him for trying to run. But if he didn't go back, if they had to come get him, there would be no hope of convincing them. His hands began to tremble and he balled them into fists to stop the motion.

His heart started to beat faster and he used the breath control techniques he’d been taught to not reveal how scared he was. Don't show any weaknesses. That was what he had learned a long time ago. Suit had used every weakness he could find. _Don't show them any weaknesses. Don't show them how scared you are_ , he thought.

The problem was, they could torture him, but he had nothing to reveal. It wasn’t even that he wouldn’t talk, it was just that he knew nothing, not even why the man they ordered him to kill should die. He didn't need to know. The only thing he would be able tell them about was the apartment he’d been staying in, but he was pretty sure that they already knew about it. He didn't know names, places, reasons; he knew nothing. And he knew how implausible it would sound to them. He was an assassin, how could he not know anything about his job, his training, his employers? They weren’t go to believe him.

_Yeah, Mr. Torturer, you know, I don't know anything. I’ve lived with them for fifteen years now and I don't know even their names. I do what they tell me because I don't want them to rip out my fucking eyes, and I don't ask questions because I like my skin where it is._

No one would believe that. Whether he told the truth or lied, he was still going to be tortured for it. It would be better to just say nothing at all.

He didn't know how long he sat there before the door outside his cell finally opened. Clint turned his head to watch. _So, it begins._


	17. Chapter 17

Phil opened the door to the room where Barton’s cell was. The cell itself was simply one half of the room, divided by bulletproof, shatterproof glass, allowing prisoners to be watched at all times. Barton was still sitting on the floor. He turned his head to watch Phil enter, but otherwise didn't move as Phil came closer.

One of the guards outside brought a chair for Phil, and he sat down with a grateful nod at the man. He knew that he risked showing weakness in front of a prisoner by doing so, but he still wasn’t 100% yet. However, when he turned back, he found that Barton was simply watching him with a bland expression.

“So, we finally meet face to face,” Phil said, giving Barton an opportunity to say something, but he remained silent.

“How are you? Do you need anything?” he asked. Barton still held his gaze, but didn't answer aside from a slight shake of his head.

“I'm Agent Phil Coulson,” Phil introduced himself. Barton just tilted his head, as if to say he already knew that. Which, given the fact that he had tried to kill Director Fury, he probably did.

They sat for a few more moments in silence before Barton pushed himself to his feet, the movement surprisingly elegant for someone who had been sitting in the same position for several hours. He crossed the small cell and sat in front of Phil, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. It was a defensive position, but one that Phil found very… _young_. Most suspects just crossed their arms, maybe their legs. It was definitely a tell, but what it signified, Phil wasn’t sure yet.

“Are you here to torture me?” Barton asked.

“No, I just want to talk to you.” Phil tried to smile reassuringly, a little concerned that their prisoner had jumped straight to the worst case scenario.

“I can save us both a lot of trouble. I don't know anything. You don’t need to torture me.”

“Let me be the judge of that. For right now, I just want to talk to you, Mr. Barton.”

Barton flinched, a full body recoil, and turned his face away. “You need to let me go,” he said quietly.

“Why would we after we went through all that trouble to capture you?” Phil leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, ignoring the slight twinge of tight muscles in his chest.

“It's too dangerous to keep me. You have to let me go.”

“Dangerous?” Phil asked. Barton nodded slowly, finally turning his head to look back at Phil. “Why?”

“Because they’ll find me, and then they’ll come get me. And they won’t care who they hurt to do so.”

Phil sat back, struck by the earnestness in Barton’s voice. “You didn’t seem very concerned about our safety a few hours ago.”

Barton shrugged. “Didn’t have a choice. They told me to kill Fury.”

“Who are they?” Phil asked, switching to a different point, hoping to draw more out.

“I don’t know.” Barton shrugged again. “The people who own me.”

That gave Phil pause. “People can’t be owned,” he stated firmly.

Barton smiled slightly, the expression faintly mocking. “If you say so.” He cocked his head again and looked Phil over. “I don't want to hurt anyone, but the longer the keep me here, the worse it’s going to be for everyone.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. can take care of itself,” Phil said.

Barton snorted. “If you say so,” he repeated. “That’s why your director would be dead if he hadn’t gotten lucky.” For a moment, he looked down and then back up, all amusement and derision gone. “You have to let me go.” When Phil didn’t reply, he rose and went back to the place he'd been sitting earlier, assuming the same position he had before and clearly dismissing Phil.

Phil watched him for a long time, but Barton continued to ignore him. Phil nodded to himself and left, pondering over the little things Barton had revealed. He didn’t seem to harbor any animosity or hostility toward S.H.I.E.L.D. and he didn’t seem troubled by the thought of torture. His body language revealed a curious mix of worldliness and inexperience, a very odd mix in a professional assassin. He seemed truthful about believing that he was owned and he’d reacted badly the one time Phil had used his name. Very strange.

They needed to know more, and since Phil wasn’t willing to torture him, he was going to have to give Barton some more time to think before talking to him again.

***

Later that day, Steve headed back to the surveillance room. Glancing at the screen, he could see the prisoner, Barton, was still sitting on the floor, eyes closed. There was an untouched tray of food and a bottle of water on the floor, just inside the door. Steve frowned and looked over at Phil. He was sitting in front of the screen, hands and chin resting on the handle of his cane. Steve frowned again. Phil looked exhausted. It had been barely a week since he was released from medical, and the events of today would have been draining on a healthy man, let alone one who was still recovering. Phil turned his head when Steve entered.

“Captain,” he said wryly in greeting.

“Agent Coulson,” Steve replied, earning a small, weary grin. Steve gestured to the screen. “He hasn’t moved? Or eaten?”

Phil shook his head. “No. It’s not all that surprising, since he is an assassin, but it’s not sitting right with me.”

“Did he say anything?”

Phil was silent for a long time. “Not much. He expects to be tortured for information, asked to be let go, and said that it was dangerous for us to keep him here.”

“He threatened you?” Steve asked, eyebrows raising in disbelief.

“No,” Phil said, shaking his head. “He said that his employers owned him and implied that they were the danger.”

“Who does he work for?”

“He says he doesn’t know.”

Steve frowned at the screen. “Mind if I talk to him? Maybe he’d be more forthcoming with me instead of agents.”

Phil pursed his lips, considering for a few long moments, before finally nodding. “Give it a shot,” he said. “Who knows? Maybe Captain America will appeal to any good part left in him.”

“Thanks.” Steve headed down to the cell, nodding to the guards. Once they unlocked the outer door, he gestured for them to leave, waiting for them to be gone before letting himself into the outer area of the cell. Behind the glass, Barton turned his head to watch him, but didn’t otherwise move.

“Hi,” he said, not quite sure how to start this. It wasn’t a standard interrogation.

“You're not an agent,” Barton said and cocked his head, eyes narrowed slightly. Clearly, he didn’t seem to recognize Steve as Captain America, which was the exception these days.

“No. My name is Steve.” He waited for the prisoner to say something, but Barton just kept looking at him silently. It took a lot to make Steve uncomfortable, but he felt a little bit uneasy under that intense stare.

“Your name is Clint, right?” Steve asked, wanting to get a conversation started. “I've heard a lot about you.”

Barton flinched. “No,” he said harshly, rolling to his feet with a fluid motion.

“What?” Steve asked, confused.

“Don’t call me that. That’s not my name. I don’t have a name.” Barton walked up to the glass wall, shoving the tray aside with one foot so that they were only about a yard apart.

“What?” Steve asked, confused.

“I don't have a name,” the man repeated. Steve could see him swallow before he spoke again. “Are you here to let me go?”

The request caught Steve off guard. “No, I'm afraid that's not possible.”

“Why not?”

“You're a criminal,” Steve said and carefully watched his reaction.

Barton hung his head. “I know. And I'm sorry. But it's important that you let me go.” After a few seconds he added, “Please.”

Something was off about Barton’s behavior, though Steve couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He’d certainly never seen a murderer admit to be being one, apologize, and then ask to be set free, and definitely not with the expectation that it would happen. It was...odd.

“You talked to Agent Coulson,” Steve stated and the man nodded, once, with a short, sharp move of his head.

“You said the people you work for will find you.”

“That's true.”

“You also said that they owned you. Why do you think that?”

Barton looked at him strangely. “Because they do?” His reply wasn’t sarcasm. Barton seemed genuinely confused, as if his answer was obvious, and he didn’t understand why he had to explain.

Steve resisted frowning, thinking back over what Barton had said. He wanted to understand what was going on. “You said you didn’t have a name,” he said slowly. “If that’s true, what do they call you?”

“13-98,” Barton answered promptly.

“13-98? I don't understand.” That was a strange codename, if that’s what Barton was saying.

“That's what they call me. 13-98.”

“They call you with a number?” Steve was shocked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Barton shrugged. “Tools don't need names.”

The answer was so matter of fact, so _bizarre_ , that Steve was inclined to believe it. If Barton was going to lie, he could have come up with a far more believable lie than that. “Who are they?”

“I don't know.”

“You've been with them for fifteen years and you don't know who they are?” Steve asked incredulously.

“Do you introduce yourself to your hammer and your screwdriver?” He looked at Steve with such sincerity, spoke so matter-of-factly, that Steve realized that whatever the truth was, Barton completely believed what he was saying was true.

“It's that what you are? A tool?” Barton only shrugged.

If that’s how Barton thought of himself, it forced Steve to reevaluate how he approached questioning Barton. “Do you want to be an assassin?” Steve asked slowly.

Barton hesitated before answering. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he replied quietly.

“So you have to do what they say or they’ll punish you?” Steve asked and Barton nodded.

“But why do you want to go back to them if they hurt you?”

“What?” Barton asked, startled. “You think I _want_ to go back?” A flash of naked fear, crossed his face. “No, definitely not... But it's better than the alternative.” 

“What is the alternative?” Steve pressed, but it seemed that whatever his questions had brought up, it had shut down Barton’s willingness to talk. He shook his head and stepped away from the glass, turning away. It was clear that he wasn’t going to talk anymore.

Steve sighed. They could try again later. “You should eat something,” he finally said and turned to leave.

“Can't,” Barton mumbled. “I'm not allowed to.”

Steve turned back and stared at him. “Says who? No one here would have told you that. We gave you food so you could eat it.”

Barton shook his head again and went back to the spot he’d been sitting in. Steve watched him for a minute before letting himself out and alerting the guards that he was done.

“That was enlightening,” Phil said when Steve was back in the surveillance room.

“That’s so twisted. Whoever they are, they've done quite a job to mess him up.”

“Is it the weapon's fault when people get murdered?” Phil murmured.

“What?” Steve turned to Coulson, puzzled.

Phil shook his head. “He said that to me once. ‘Is it the weapon's fault when people get murdered?’ I didn’t realize he meant it literally. He doesn't see himself as person anymore, he's just a tool.”

“This is wrong, Phil.”

“I know.”

“Have you ever seen this before?”

Phil thought about it for a moment. “It reminds me a lot of what Natasha and Bucky went through with the Red Room, but without the indoctrination. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen something quite like this before.”

Phil watched the screen for a moment longer. “I need to talk to Director Fury.” He pushed himself to his feet, barely suppressing a groan, and limped from the room, leaning heavily on his cane. Steve took Phil’s chair, so that there would be someone watching the monitor in case something happened. On screen, Barton was back sitting against the wall, cross-legged and his hands on his knees, the tray with food and water still untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say thanks to Moiraine lately? Because she's an incredible beta reader! Thanks! ;)


	18. Chapter 18

After talking with Fury and taking a short nap, Phil relieved Steve and kept watch in the surveillance room until Barton finally passed out. What Barton had revealed made all of them agree that they needed to proceed cautiously, and that the best course of action would be to treat him as potential victim rather than a hostile. The first step was getting him into medical to conduct a thorough examination. Not willing to take any chances, once Barton was unconscious, Phil asked Romanoff to tranq him, and then they worked on getting him to their doctors.

Phil sent two agents in to retrieve him. They strapped Barton to a gurney, just in case he shook off the sedation earlier than they expected, and wheeled him to Medical. Phil followed them, leaning heavily on his cane, aware that he was pushing too hard, but too curious to leave. He could rest later. When they arrived in Medical, Phil dismissed the agents. Nurses stripped Barton down to his boxers and transferred him to a bed, securing him once more. One began hooking him up to machines and taking his vitals while the other went to get a doctor.

He was waiting for the doctor, and wondering if he could find a chair somewhere, when the door opened and Tony, Bruce and Steve arrived.

“What are you doing here?” Phil asked. Steve opened his mouth to answer when seconds later Barnes and Romanoff also walked in. They all crowded into the room, making it feel very small and cramped. Phil pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the first signs of a headache. He turned to one of the nurses. “Can I get some ibuprofen, please?” he asked quietly. The middle-aged woman smiled in sympathy, nodded and left.

“So, that's the guy who shot me down?” Tony asked, turning his attention to Barton and glowered at the unconscious man. “He doesn't seem that dangerous.” Barnes snorted and when Phil glared at him, he mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key. Phil rolled his eyes and Natasha elbowed him discretely.

“Steve filled us in. He hasn’t been eating or drinking?” Banner looked at Phil.

“That's correct. He's refused to ingest anything, despite being here for the better part of a day.” Banner frowned and looked at the readings the nurse was writing down.

“Okay,” Phil finally sighed. “Right now, none of you need to be here. I don’t mind if Bruce stays, but there’s nothing else for the rest of you to do right now.” A thought occurred to Phil and he turned to Tony. “Actually, Tony, do you have a way to scan for any subdermal implants? Given what he’s said, I have some suspicions and I’d rather not stick him in an MRI machine until I know it’s safe.”

“Yeah, if it’s just subdermal. Let me go grab it.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll go see what’s keeping the doctor,” Romanoff murmured after Tony left, taking Barnes by the arm and taking him with her. 

“Thank God,” Phil muttered.

“Agent Coulson?” Phil turned to the nurse. “With your permission, I’ll start getting fluids into him. He’s dehydrated.”

“Thank you. Go right ahead.”

The nurse left the room, returning shortly with two bags of fluid and IV tubing. Quickly and competently, she hung the bags, slid a needle into Barton’s arm, and connected the tubing. She watched the flow for a moment, adjusted the flow so that that they were dripping rapidly, and then gathered up the packaging. “There we go,” she said, patting Barton’s arm. “That should take care of him. The doctor should be in shortly.”

She discarded the packaging in the marked bin and left. The others waited in silence until Romanoff and Barnes returned with Dr. Archer, the other nurse in tow.

“Sorry, got held up with a minor emergency,” Dr. Archer said, walking in briskly and snagging a pair of gloves from the box on the wall. He snapped them on and then glanced at Barton.

“You sedated him?” he asked and Phil nodded.

“How long will he be out?”

“At least two hours. We didn’t want to take any chances.”

Dr. Archer made a face and then shrugged. “Can’t be helped, I guess,” he muttered. “If he’s going to be out cold, might as well remove the straps. We should have plenty of warning to get them back on.”

“That’s fine,” Phil replied. The nurse began to undo the straps while Dr. Archer held out his hand for Barton’s chart. Bruce handed it over and stepped back near Phil.

Frowning, Dr. Archer flipped through the chart, and then frowned harder as he looked up at his patient. “What happened to you?” he murmured and then shook his head.

“I’m going to order a full work up: blood panels, x-rays, and MRI scans.”

“We’re waiting for Stark to get back with a subdermal scanner,” Phil said quickly.

“You think he’s chipped?” Dr. Archer asked, and then nodded. “Yes, good idea. We can start drawing blood, and then do x-rays. Cathy, if you would?”

“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse answered, opening drawers and cabinets, put needles and vials on a tray. The others moved back to give her room to work, watching as she swiftly found a vein on Barton’s other arm and began filling vials.

All of a sudden, the monitoring machines began to beep in alarm. Everyone looked over and Dr. Archer swore. He put two fingers on Barton’s neck, then swore again and pulled his stethoscope from around his neck, hurriedly putting it on and began listening to Barton’s heartbeat.

“What happened?” Steve asked.

“His heart’s stopped,” Archer said harshly. “Get a crash cart!”

Cathy dashed from the room as Archer started chest compressions. Bruce watched for a second and then yanked the IV tubing out of Barton’s arm.

“It’s the only new thing that’s been introduced,” he explained quickly when the others looked at him. “Being dehydrated won’t kill him, but this might.”

“Barnes, Romanoff, find that nurse,” Phil ordered quietly. They left without a word and Phil looked at the rest. “Everyone else out. They’re going to need room.”

Nurse Cathy came back with two other nurses and the crash cart, hurrying to begin assisting Archer. They watched in silence as the doctor and nurses swarmed around Barton, frantically working to get his heart started again. There were a few moments of hope where they got a heartbeat for a few seconds before Barton flatlined again. The faces of those working on him got grimmer as each minute passed.

“What’s going on?” Tony asked, coming up beside them, device in hand.

“It seems someone doesn’t want him to talk,” Phil replied, not taking his eyes off the scene.

“Fuck,” Tony muttered, watching with them.

Nothing else was said and Phil was mentally preparing for what to do if Barton was dead when the beeping indicated Barton had a heartbeat again. Archer hovered over him, eyes glued to the monitor, but Barton didn’t flatline again. His pulse was slow, and erratic, but it was there, and holding.

“Shit.” Archer wiped a hand over his face. “That was close. Let’s get him to a room, and I want that IV bag analyzed. I want to know what happened.”

He looked at Phil. “The blood work is probably contaminated, but I’ll run it anyway. Just keep in mind we’re going to have to do it again once whatever that was is out of his system. Everything else is going to have to wait.”

“What about looking for a tracker? If they found him once, they can find him again.”

Archer frowned. “Fine. Give me a few minutes to get him to a room and then you can check. If there is one, it’s better that we remove it now.”

Barton was wheeled out of the exam room and down a few hallways to a secure hospital room. The nurses transferred him, hooking up new monitors and IV lines—that had been checked personally by Archer—and then made room for Tony to use his scanner. Tony checked Barton’s neck, chest and arms, with no result. “Can we sit him up so I can check his back?” he asked.

Archer didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “Captain, give him a hand, please.” Carefully, the two of them sat Barton up, supporting his lax body. “My god,” Steve breathed. “Phil, his back….”

“I’m aware, Captain. Nothing we can do about it now.”

Tony paused before he ran the scanner down one side of Barton’s back. “Jesus,” he muttered, “that’s disturbing.” He pointed to Barton’s neck. “What does that mean?”

“We don’t know yet,” Phil said. “Now would you please check him?”

The first side of Barton’s back revealed nothing, but they got a hit on the second. Tony pursed his lips as he studied his scanner. “It’s about an inch long, and about a half inch deep. Doesn’t seem to be near anything important.”

“Can we remove it?”

Archer looked at the scanner. “We should be able to. Captain, can you support him?”

“Of course.”

Archer left and returned with a tray holding a scalpel, forceps, gauze pads, a waste pan, and surgical disinfectant. “Feel like helping, Dr. Banner?” he asked, not waiting for an answer before he gestured for Bruce to scrub up. Bruce washed his hands and put on gloves while Archer sterilized the area of Barton’s back and then pick up the scalpel. He made a small, quick cut, and Bruce pressed gauze to the cut to clean some of the blood away while Archer grabbed the forceps. He fished around for a moment before carefully removing something, setting it down in the waste pan.

“Okay, it’s out. Let’s get this closed up.” A few minutes and three stitches later, Bruce was securing a bandage over the wound and Steve was lowering him back down.

“I’ll take that,” Tony said, snatching the pan with the tracker off the tray. “I’ll have JARVIS analyse it.” Archer glared at him, but didn’t say anything.

“We need to relocate him,” Bruce said and Phil nodded.

“Yes, you're right,” Phil replied. He looked at Tony. “I’d say Stark Tower is fairly secure, wouldn’t you?”

Tony opened his mouth to object and then sighed. “Fine. Give me a day or two and I can get a secure room set up. Between my security system, JARVIS, and the Avengers, he should be safe.”

“As soon as you can, Stark,” Phil said.

“Sure thing.”

“In the meantime, he should be under guard,” Steve said quietly. “We can take turns.”

“That’s fine,” Phil agreed. “I need to see if Barnes and Romanoff have found our nurse.”

“Hey, Agent?” Phil looked at Stark. “Why are doing do this for a murderer who tried to kill us?”

Phil looked at Barton’s pale, unconscious form on the bed. He looked very young. “Things aren’t always so cut and dry,” he said quietly. “We also seem to make a habit of this, look at your teammates.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Tony grinned. “Just checking. I’ll let you know when I have something.”

“Bruce and I can take first watch,” Steve offered.

“Good idea. Let me know if anything changes.”

“Sure.” Steve dragged a chair over, sitting next to Barton’s bed with a clear view of the door. “Good luck.”

“I think I’m going to need it,” Phil muttered, heading out the door.


	19. Chapter 19

They moved him in a cloak-and-dagger operation. No one outside the Avengers, Coulson and Fury knew about it. Everyone else who knew about Barton had been informed that he was being moved to a more secure medical facility. Coulson had authorized Barton’s transfer and was there to accompany his prisoner, Barnes and Romanoff provided security and would detour Barton’s transport to the tower, Tony was in charge of hacking the security system and altering video feeds and transfer records, and Steve, Thor and Bruce waited at the tower to receive their prisoner.

Steve was uneasy with the whole idea of imprisoning someone at the tower, but analysis had revealed that it wasn't poison in the IV-bag, but a narcotic agent, based on the poison of a blowfish. It would have simulated his death for a short time, allowing whoever was after Barton to get steal his “corpse.” What Barton had said seemed to be true. They, whoever they were, would do anything to get him back.

Barton was still sedated when they wheeled him out of the elevator and down to the cell Tony had built in. It was similar to the one at the SHIELD base. He had cleared a room on the maintenance floor—not far away from the server room where JARVIS's systems were—and separated it with bullet- and shatter-proof glass. On the left side was a bunk, no more than a metal surface, screwed to the wall, that held only a thin, plastic covered mat. Not really until they were sure he wouldn't use them to kill himself or someone who had to enter the cell. Behind the bunk was a half-height wall where he had installed a prison style toilet and sink. On the right, another sheet of metal had been screwed into the wall to be used as table and a second, lower one served as a bench. The door was in the middle of the glass wall and could only be opened with a code, or by JARVIS, if necessary. Before they relocated Barton, Natasha had given it a trial run and found it to be as inescapable as they could make it. Given time, everyone was sure she could have found some trick, but for now, it would be suitable for holding the charge.

Bucky and Steve transferred Barton onto the bunk while Tony adjusted the temperature. He set JARVIS to monitor Barton’s movements and vitals, with orders to alert them if _anything_ happened. When Phil finally nodded, they stepped out and locked the door. Tony dimmed the lights, enough so that they could still see, but not so bright as to rouse Barton, and then they left him alone.

“So, what are we going to do now?” Bruce asked when they gathered in the communal living room, spreading out across the seats.

“We need to find out who we’re dealing with. Barton clearly isn’t the only assassin they have on their _payroll_. We can't let them take the law in their own hands,” Steve said.

“Forget that for a moment. Assuming we shut them down, what are we going to do with _him_?” Stark asked. “I don’t want a murderer hanging out in my tower indefinitely. Not as long as my fiancé lives here as well.”

“I’m not sure murderer is the right word,” Bruce murmured.

“While I agree with you,” Phil said, folding his hands in his lap, “I doubt many courts would. Not only has he confessed, there’s enough evidence for a jury to convict him. I’m not sure being coerced would sway many juries when they see his list of victims. If we hand him over to the authorities, he will likely spend the rest of his life in jail.”

“If what he says is true, that hardly seems fair,” Thor protested. “He was a child when he was taken, was he not? Forced into a life of slavery and forced to commit heinous crimes upon threat of torture. Your courts would hold him responsible for his actions?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“But we’re not going to do that,” Steve said firmly. “We’ll figure something out.”

“I know that look,” Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s his ‘I’m going to make everything better’ look.” He shook his head. “You wanna recruit him.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we turned an enemy into an ally, Buck.” He gave his friend a pointed look.

“This is a little different,” Coulson said.

“How so?” Natasha asked. “His life is very similar to both James and I.”

“Neither of you tried to kill the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he said pointedly.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, it was probably only a matter of time,” Bucky said cheerfully.

“No. No, that does not make me feel any better, Barnes, thank you.” He sighed. “We’re going to shelve this issue for now. _When_ we have taken Barton’s trainers down, _then_ we will revisit it.

“In the meantime,” he continued, “if we’re going to keep him safe, he needs to tell us as much as possible. Steve, he seemed to respond to you. I suggest that you talk to him.” Steve nodded.

“JARVIS, is our _guest_ still out?” Stark asked.

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS answered. “Scans indicate he will likely remain asleep for several hours yet.”

“Let him sleep,” Steve said. “He needs it. But I want to know as soon as he’s awake. Please tell me when, JARVIS.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Anything about the nurse?” Steve asked, remembering the woman who brought the IV bags with the poison.

“No. Dr. Archer said she worked there for five months. She was a good nurse and absolutely reliable.” Coulson said, sighed and shook his head slightly.

“Gone,” Natasha said. “We’re looking for her, but so far nothing yet. As soon as we hear anything, James and I will check it out.”

“All right. I'm going back to headquarters and inform the director of the progress so far. I’ll be back tomorrow. Steve, if you learn anything, let me know immediately.” Bracing himself, he stood slowly and carefully, wincing.

“Be careful, sir,” Natasha said.

“I will. Just over-taxed myself today. I will see you all later.”

They watched him go, and then began to drift off to do their own things while they waited for the prisoner to wake up.

 

***

 

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS addressed Steve, “the prisoner is now awake.”

“Thanks, JARVIS,” Steve said. Barton had slept longer than they’d anticipated, so everyone else had gone off to do their own things for the night. “You’re going to keep recording, right?”

“Of course, per both Mr. Stark’s and Agent Coulson’s orders.”

“Good.”

When Steve entered the room with the cell, he found Barton sitting on the edge of his bunk, looking like he was just about to get up.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, sagging in relief. “I thought…”

“We had to relocate you,” Steve explained gently, and Barton nodded, scrubbing a hand over his face before pushing himself to his feet. He swayed briefly and Steve stepped forward.

“Be careful. The sedatives might not have worn off completely.”

Barton made his way to the glass wall and braced himself against it with one hand. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“What? Saving you?” Barton nodded. “This organization you work for-” Barton snorted, lips curling in a grimace, “-are _forced_ to work for...you can’t be the only one. And it's our job to put a stop to them.”

“You really think you can do that?” he asked and fixed Steve with his painfully intense gaze.

“I know we can.”

“You don’t know how powerful they are. How much influence they have.”

“I've gone up against pretty powerful organizations, and the others have, too. I’m, not saying it’s going to be easy, but we will shut them down.”

Barton looked away and licked his lips, clearly nervous. “You’re taking a risk by keeping me. It's not too late to let me go.”

“You keep saying that. Why do you want to go back so badly? They already tried to kill you once. What’s to stop them from doing it again?”

“They wouldn't kill me. If you let me go now, I'm sure I can convince them that it was a mistake. I’ll be punished, but... I can handle it.” He stopped and Steve could see the way his hands shook faintly, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. He felt his skin crawl. Barton was willing to go back, even if it meant being tortured.

Steve thought hard. This didn’t feel like Stockholm Syndrome to him. Barton clearly disliked--if not hated--his captors, and he wasn’t saying he _wanted_ to go back, just that he needed to. What was compelling him to act that way?

“If you don't go back,” he said slowly, “what will they do?”

Barton shook his head and pushed away from the wall, wavering for a moment before he steadied himself.

Steve stepped right up to the wall. They needed Barton to believe they weren’t the enemy. “Please, tell me, Clint.”

“Stop calling me that,” Barton--no, _Clint_ snapped, turning angrily to face Steve.

“But that's your name.”

“I don't have a name!” he yelled. “I don't deserve a name!”

“What are they going to do to you?” Steve pressed, ignoring the other statement for the moment.

“What? To give you ideas?”

“We’re not going to hurt you. And we’re not going to let them hurt you again. I give you my word, Clint, we’re going to keep you safe.” 

Clint flinched again at his name and shook his head. He turned away from Steve and sat back down on his bunk, facing the wall. Steve waited patiently. He didn’t want to push so hard that Clint shut down completely.

After several minutes, Clint finally let his head fall forward with a sigh. “What does it matter?” he muttered to himself. “It’s probably already too late.” He looked over at Steve.

“When they find me, they’re not going to kill me. They’ll take me back, and then…” He stopped and swallowed hard before he continued. “When we fail or turn traitor, they make sure no one will ever be able to use us again.” He looked down at his hands. “When they take me back, they’re going to cut my hands off. Then they’re going to take my eyes out and give them to the eye doctor. And then they’re going to leave me to rot in a cell.”

He looked at Steve. “So you see, they’re not going to kill me.”

Steve stared at Clint in horror, both at the cruelty of what Clint described as well as his matter-of-fact acceptance of it. “Clint… I don’t… That…” He didn’t know what to say.

“I understand that you can't let me go, but can you not let them get me?” Clint asked desperately. “Don't let them take me alive. Please. I don’t care what else you do to me, but you can’t let them take me alive.”

“You want me to kill you?” There was a slight hint of hysteria in his voice that Steve couldn’t suppress.

“No, I can do it myself. If you give me a gun, I can end this right now, and you won’t have to try to keep me from them anymore. I promise, I won't hurt anyone.”

“No!” Steve shook his head emphatically. “That is _not_ an option. I’m not going to kill you and you’re not going to kill yourself.”

Clint opened his mouth, but Steve shook his head again. “Don’t ask me again.” He stepped away from the wall, trying not to react to the disappointment in Clint’s face. “You need to rest. Someone will bring you something to eat and a change of clothes in a little while.”

He didn’t wait any longer, just turned away and headed for the door, feeling like he was running away.


	20. Chapter 20

When Steve entered the living room again, he went straight to the bar, looking for the bottle of Asgardian mead that he knew was there. Not even bothering with a glass, he pulled the cork and took a long swallow.

“You know that was for everyone, right?” Tony asked with a raised brow.

“I know and I'm sorry, but I need it right now.” Steve took another long swallow, feeling the strength of the drink hit his system. His metabolism would still process fast enough that he couldn’t really get drunk, but it took the edge off, helped settle his nerves. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, letting the alcohol do its job.  
.  
“Is everything all right, Steve?” Bruce asked.

“JARVIS, did you record the conversation I just had with Clint?” Steve asked instead of answering Bruce.

“I do, Captain.”

“Play it for the others, please.”

Steve didn’t watch, couldn’t watch. Hearing it again was bad enough.. The others watched in silence and when the clip finally ended, the silence continued.

“Well, fuck,” Tony finally said, going over to the bar and taking the bottle from Steve’s hand to chug down a few swallows. “Fuck,” he said again when he pulled the bottle away.

“An effective means of control,” Natasha said quietly.

Bruce looked over at her, horrified. “You approve of that?” he asked, aghast.

“No, of course not. I said ‘effective,’ not that I thought it was right.”

“It would have worked on me,” Bucky added quietly. “The threat of being left a broken, useless thing…” He shook his head.

"That’s messed up,” Tony said firmly. “I don’t know about you, but I think I like the Chitauri better than _them_. At least with the Chitauri, you knew they just wanted to kill you, not mutilate you.”

“It might be a good sign, though,” Natasha offered thoughtfully.

“How so?” Steve asked.

“If he had to be coerced with that type of threat, then he’s not a killer at heart, not like Bucky and me.”

“You’re not-” Steve started.

“You know what she means, Steve,” Bucky interrupted. “I was a sniper even before I was the Winter Soldier. Natasha was raised to be the Black Widow. If Barton never bought into any brainwashing, if he had to be forced on the threat of torture, then he’s not a bad person.” He flicked a quick look at Natasha, who nodded.

“We got our second chances and he deserves one, too.”

“In S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Bruce asked.

“It may be the only safe place left for him,” Natasha said. “In any case, that decision will have to wait until we take them down.”

“Okay, well, that’s settled,” Tony said. “Let’s get to work.

 

***

 

Having promised Clint food, Steve went to the kitchen and prepared a few sandwiches and some veggie sticks, and put them on a tray with a couple bottles of water. With the tray balanced on one hand, took the elevator down, scanning his other hand and his eye when JARVIS prompted him. The outer door to the room opened and Steve approached the glass door.

Clint was sitting on the edge of the cot, watching him anxiously. He didn’t take his eyes off Steve as he opened a small partition in the glass and slid the tray through.

“I'm sorry,” he said as soon as Steve straightened, not moving toward the food.

“Why are you sorry?” Steve asked, baffled

“For whatever I said that upset you. You left and you looked upset.”

Steve had to take a deep breath before he could reply. Clint looked and sounded so incredibly young at that moment. He wished there was a chair so he wasn’t looming over Clint, but there wasn’t. So until they got one, he sat on the floor, crossing his legs.

“No, that wasn’t... I was upset, yes, but not at you. I’m the one who should apologize for running out like that.” Clint’s brows furrowed, like he was confused. Steve gestured to the tray.

“You should eat. The food hasn’t been tampered with. I made it myself.”

“I...I believe you,” Clint said quietly. “It's just...” He closed his mouth and pulled his legs up to his body and wrapped his arms around them.

“You don't like it?” Steve tilted his head and lifted a brow.

Clint blushed, but then shook his head. “It’s not that...exactly…”

“Do you want something else?” He shook his head again. Steve frowned. “You haven't eaten since we brought you in. You had IV nutrients, but you’ve got to be hungry.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you have to eat,” Steve insisted. He wasn’t going to let Clint starve himself if that’s what he was trying to do. “You can have whatever you want. We’re all decent in the kitchen and Bruce is a pretty good chef if you like vegetarian food. If you want anything else, we can order it. It's no problem. Really.”

“Why do you care?” He cocked his head and crossed his hands over his knees.

“Because you’re under our protection now and that means taking care of you. Including making sure you eat, Clint.”

Clint’s face shuttered. “Stop calling me that,” he said through gritted teeth.

Steve shook his head. “You’re not only a tool, Clint. You're a human being and you deserve to be treated like one.”

“I don’t want you to use that name,” he grated. “I don’t like it.”

“Okay.” Steve held up his hands to show he meant no harm. “But I have to call you something and I’m not going to call you by a number.”

Clint remained silent and Steve cast his thoughts about for something they could use. “You used to be in the circus, right?” he asked, suddenly remembering something.

“Y-Yes. How do you know?”

“Your brother told us.” Clint’s eyes went wide and Steve realized that he must not have known what happened to his brother after he shot him. “He's alive, did you know that?” Clint shook his head as his body sagged with relief.

“He told us they called you 'The Amazing Hawkeye.' Can I call you that? Hawkeye? It's not your name. It's more like a, a call sign or a nickname.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed for a moment and then he nodded. “I guess that’s okay,” he said, shrugging.

“So, Hawkeye.” Steve smiled and leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees. “About some food for you. What do you like?”

“I... I don't care... I’ll eat anything. Just not... I don't like sandwiches. Or oatmeal.” He flushed and looked away. Steve was sure that it wasn't just dislike; there had to be more. But the reasons could wait for now.

“What was your favorite food when you were a kid?”

“Mashed potatoes and gravy,” he answered, quick like a shot “My mom made it a lot.” He flushed again.

“Yeah? My mom made mashed potatoes and gravy when I was a boy. I still love it.” Steve smiled brightly at Clint and for the first time he got a sincere smile back. "Do you like meatloaf? There's a diner a few blocks down that does a mean meatloaf and mashed potatoes."

"That sounds good. But don't go to any trouble."

"It's no trouble. Hey, JARVIS, can you call Joe's and get us a few orders delivered?"

“Of course, sir.”

Clint started violently, jumping off the cot and backing into a corner. “What was that?!” he blurted, looking around frantically to find the source of the voice.

“Cli- Hawkeye, calm down. It’s all right. That's JARVIS. He's an AI, an artificial intelligence. He keeps an eye on us,” Steve explained.

Relaxing slowly, Clint stepped out of the corner. “An AI. Like, like HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey?”

“You know the movie?” Steve asked, surprised. Tony and Bucky had _forced_ him to watch it and for a few weeks he thought about moving into a house without an AI.

“No, but sometimes I can get books when...” Clint stopped, bit his lips, and then looked at the floor. “Never mind.”

“Well, you don't have to be afraid of JARVIS. And if you need anything or any of us, you can ask and he’ll let us know.” Steve sat down again and after a while sat back down on the cot. “As much as I hate to do this, I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Clint said and leaned his head back at the wall. “But I already told you I don't know very much about them.”

“Any little bit might help, even if it doesn’t seem significant to you. Are you up to trying it?”

“Why even bother? You can't stop them.” His voice was a little desperate. After being powerless and at their mercy for so long, Steve understood why Clint felt that way. Showing him that they could--and _would_ \--would go a long way to helping him.

“We’re going to try. Let’s start where you were held…”


	21. Chapter 21

The next morning, he joined the others for breakfast in the communal kitchen. They asked a few questions about Clint, but mostly kept the conversation focused on other things. Steve was focused on his breakfast when an idea suddenly occurred to him.

“Hey, is there a way to use computers to find faces?”

They all looked at him, but Phil was the one who answered. “Yes. In fact, we used it to try and find Clint that way, and ended up finding his brother.”

“Can we do it without using S.H.I.E.L.D.? Tony?”

“Of course. We can run facial recognition on any video we can get our hands on. Why?”

“I was thinking we could use it to look for the people who kidnapped Clint.”

Tony nodded. “Good idea, except I didn’t think we had any pictures.”

“We don’t. But Clint knows what they look like and I could draw them.”

Frowning, Tony scratched at his beard. “That could work, but I might need to have J.A.R.V.I.S. render them as 3D models first. Still, it’s a starting point.”

“Maybe they haven't told him anything, but he has _seen_ them. And I can draw them.”

Tony nodded again. “Sure thing. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

“Great. I’ll take my sketchpad down when I bring him breakfast.” 

Bruce cleared his throat gently. “Um, while this is a good idea, Steve, I don’t think that you’re the best person for the job. It takes a lot of training to be a forensic artist and they have to know how to question people to describe faces accurately,” Bruce pointed out.

“Oh.” Steve tried not to feel disappointed. “Okay, then we need to find one of these...forensic artists.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. has some,” Phil said.

“But do you trust them?” Bucky asked bluntly.

Phil sighed. “And excellent question.” He thought for a few seconds and then nodded. “I think I have an idea. I’ll be back” Slowly he rose, grabbed his cane and limped to the elevator.

“There is something else to consider,” Natasha said carefully once Phil had left. She waited until Steve had turned to look at her. “Is Clint willing to help?”

Steve started to answer yes, but hesitated. “I don’t know.”

Natasha nodded. “You should speak to him. I’ll come with you. He needs breakfast, correct?” When Steve nodded, she stood. “Let’s make a plate and talk to him when he’s done.”

***

Brandon Albert had just woken up and wanted nothing more than to spend his day off on his couch with a cold beer and some leftover Chinese food. He was fishing the remote out from under the couch where his cat had batted it off when he heard a knock on his door. Groaning, he got up to answer it and give whoever was there a piece of his mind. The words stopped in his throat as he opened the door. On the stoop were three men, all in black suits. One of them, an older man with a cane, smiled and nodded.

“Good morning. Are you Brandon Albert?” the older man asked, though it didn’t sound like a question.

Brandon squinted his eyes suspiciously. They didn't look like the lawyers his ex-wife usually sent after him. Maybe she had finally followed through on her threat to get him? “Who wants to know?” he asked, folding his arms in front of his chest.

“And you’re a forensic artist, contracted with the NYPD, correct?”

“Look, what is this about?”

“I’m Agent Coulson. I'm with S.H.I.E.L.D. and we need your help.” The man slipped a badge from inside his jacket, opening it up to show him. The distinctive eagle on it was immediately recognizable, as it had been since the Battle of Manhattan.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.? Why do you need _my_ help? I'm just a guy who draws pictures.”

“That's exactly why we need you.” Coulson turned to the other man, who handed him a leather folio. Agent Coulson opened it and extended it and a pen he slipped from his shirt pocket to Brandon. “It's urgent, but before I can tell you anything I need you to sign this.”

Brandon took the folio and looked at the paper it held. “A non-disclosure agreement?” He raised his brows and stared at the older man. “What if I don't sign it?”

“Then we ask one of your colleagues. We came to you first because you are a civilian contractor and are very highly recommended.” Coulson shrugged. “You’re completely free to say no, but let me assure you, you will be well compensated for your time.”

“Is it dangerous?” Brandon tilted his head.

“No.”

Brandon thought about his aging car and the new flat screen he’d had his eyes on. “Fine,” Brandon huffed and signed the paper. Coulson looked it over when Brandon handed it back, and then gave to the man who’d carried it. Then he gestured to the black SUV parked at the curb.

“If you would please come with us?”

“Right now?” Brandon asked in dismay.

Coulson nodded. “Yes, right now.”

With a longing glance at his couch, he sighed. “Let me go get dressed,” he said.

***

Steve was astounded when he saw Clint waiting for them. He appeared relaxed, back against the wall like usual, but his posture was open and he was looking at the glass wall, clearly waiting for Steve. His expression flickered slightly when he saw Natasha, but he didn’t say anything. JARVIS opened the cell and let them in.

“Hawkeye, this is Natasha. I guess you know her, well, at least by sight.” Steve put the plate down beside him and handed him the mug.

“Yeah. Hi,” he said, but didn't move a muscle otherwise. Steve was well aware that he was tense despite his relaxed appearance. “You should eat before it gets cold,” he prompted.

Clint nodded and lifted the mug to his lips. “Is this coffee?” Clint looked disbelievingly at him.

“Um, yeah.”

“Wow. I haven't had coffee in ages. Thanks,” he murmured and took a sip, eyes closing as he enjoyed the taste

Steve waited until Clint had cleared his plate before saying anything. “I had an idea. You said you can't tell us anything about the organization, but you know what they look like, right? We wanted to know if you’d be willing to sit down with an artist so we can start looking for them.”

Clint held the empty mug between his hands, fingers tightening on it, and he didn’t say anything for a long time.

“You don’t have to do it,” Natasha said calmly, “but we can’t stop them if we don’t even know where to start looking.

Clint nodded and looked away, frowning. “I've seen that on TV,” Clint suddenly said. “You think it’ll work?” He looked carefully at Natasha.

“It can’t hurt,” she offered.

Clint thought about it for a long time. Steve wanted an answer, but he knew pushing Clint wouldn’t help him trust them.

“When...when I help you with all this, can you promise me one thing?” He licked his lips and looked back and forth between him, his gaze lingering on Natasha.

“Of course,” Steve said.

“When they come to get me, you have to promise me to not let them take me alive.”

Steve opened his mouth in shock, surprised that Clint would ask this again. “I told you—”

“I know! I remember what you said, but you don’t _understand_. They’re going to find me and I can’t…” He squeezed his eyes shut and took a few deep breaths. “Please. I will do _anything_ you want me to, but you can’t let them get me. I’d rather die first than…”

“Clint... I...” Steve tried but failed to find the right words. Natasha, who’d stayed near the wall behind him since they entered, took a step in his direction. Steve threw her a desperate look. She walked forward so that she was closer to Clint.

Clint opened his eyes. “Please,” he repeated, looking at her.

Steve tried to get her attention, but she held Clint’s gaze, looked into his eyes for a long time and then she slowly nodded.

“I promise. They won't get you alive. If we can't save you, I'll do it myself.”

“What?! Natasha, you...” Steve had expected many things, but the promise to kill Clint wasn't one of them.

Clint just smiled, though. “Thank you,” he said, relief clear in his voice.

“Natasha,” he started again, but Natasha looked at him and shook her head, gesturing to the door. Frowning, Steve collected the plate and mug and followed her into the elevator.

“How could you do that?!” Steve spat angrily when the doors had closed. “You promised him to kill him.”

Natasha merely raised an eyebrow. “It was necessary. He was so afraid of what he knows they’re going to do that he’s been killing people to avoid it. This is the only guarantee he has that that won’t happen.”

“But you can't kill him.”

“No? What these guys want to do to him is worse than death for someone who only has what his eyes and hands can do. They’re going to take away the only thing he has and then let him live. _That_ is torture. If he cannot be saved, then a bullet through the brain is mercy.” Her expression softened. “And I only said I’d do it if we couldn’t save him. Their people might be good, but I don’t think they’re _that_ good.”

Steve stared at her for a long moment and shook his head.

Natasha took the plate and mug from his hands and stepped through the open doors onto the common floor. “Go, talk to him.” She gave him a sympathetic smile and walked toward the kitchen.

Steve looked after her, unsure what to make of it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and punched the button for Clint’s level.

“Are you mad?” Clint asked him when he saw Steve.

“What? No. No, I'm just... I didn't expect that.” He wiped over his face with his hand and looked at Clint.

“I wasn’t trying to upset you. I know you don’t like it and I’m not trying to piss you off. But if I have the choice, I prefer a quick death. Can you understand that?” Clint asked.

“I guess I can,” he finally managed and got a smile from Clint. 

“Captain Rogers?” JARVIS interrupted. “Agent Coulson is upstairs and wishes to speak to you.”

“I’ll be right there.” Steve threw a quick nod in Clint's direction and hurried out of the cell. Upstairs, he found Phil, Natasha and a thin man, about mid-thirties, with salt-and-pepper colored hair with a slim briefcase in one hand. He was looking around with wide eyes

“Captain Rogers,” Phil greeted him with a smile. “This is Brandon Albert. Mr. Albert is forensic artist for the NYPD and he is here to draw the the suspects our guest describes. He's signed a NDA and knows everything he needs to know.”

Steve looked at the man. “Great. Glad to have you here, Mr. Albert. We could really use your help.”

“That’s, uh, Captain. Glad to be of service.”

“Can you handle it from here?” Phil asked.

Steve nodded. “Sure. This way.” He placed a hand on Albert's shoulder and led him to the room with Clint’s cell. Clint looked at them carefully from where he sat on his bunk.

Albert looked around the cell, frowning at the table and chair bolted to the wall.

“I’d prefer a more comfortable chair and table if I’m going to be here a while. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

“Sure. JARVIS?”

“Certainly, sir,” the AI answered immediately, and Albert jumped and looked around warily. A few minutes later, Natasha and Bucky came down with a card table and kitchen chair. Natasha also had a carafe and a mug in one hand. They set up the table right against the glass wall, and Natasha set the coffee and mug on it.

Albert poured himself a mug and swallowed it down before he began arranging his things and getting comfortable on the chair. “Ready when you are,” he said and opened his sketchbook.

“Okay,” Clint said, wiping his hands on his pants. “I guess we should start with Suit.”

“Suit?” Steve's brows furrowed.

“I don't know their names. That's what I called them. I had to call them something.” Clint shrugged apologetically.

“It's okay. Just describe him as best you can,” Steve said and Clint nodded. And then he started to describe the people who had him for the last fifteen years.


	22. Chapter 22

“Jarvis, is Clint still asleep?” Steve asked the next morning after he and the team had breakfast.

“No, Captain Rogers. He woke half an hour ago.”

“Okay, good.” He looked at the others. “Clint’s not considered a prisoner anymore, right? He’s here for protection?”

No one answered right away. “I suppose so,” Natasha finally said. “As far as I know, with what we’ve learned, S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t going to hold him culpable for trying to kill Fury. His other killings…” She shrugged.

“If S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t turn us over, they probably won’t do it to him either, as long as they think he’s safe,” Bucky added. “Why?”

“I thought we might start allowing him out of the cell, letting him spend time in the common areas.”

Silence greeted that suggestion. “I’m not saying it’s a bad idea,” Bruce said slowly, “but we have to make sure he can’t escape.” He looked at Tony.

Tony frowned thoughtfully. “Gimme an hour. I’ll whip up some sort of tracker for him to wear. JARVIS will be able to keep tabs on him.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. “I’ll bring him some breakfast, let him know.”

The others drifted away while Steve put a plate together and brought it downstairs on a tray with a cup of coffee. Clint looked a little surprised to see him and took the plate warily.

“Everything okay?” Steve asked.

“Yeah…” Clint pressed his lips together and dug in, eating quickly.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, once Clint had finished.

“Nothing!” Clint said quickly. “Nothing. I’m just a little...surprised to see you, that’s all.”

“It’s breakfast time,” Steve said, not understanding the odd change in Clint’s demeanor.

“I know. It’s just… I didn’t think I’d be seeing you anymore.” Clint shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Forget about it.”

“Why would you think that?” Steve asked, baffled.

“Because you got what you wanted?” Clint answered. “I mean, I know I have more sketches to do, but there’s nothing else I can tell you, so there’s no need for you keep being nice.”

Steve sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’m not ‘being nice’ to try and coerce you, Hawkeye. I’m being nice because life dealt you a lousy hand and you deserve it.” Knowing words wouldn’t do much good without actions, he glanced upward. “JARVIS, is Tony done yet?”

There was a pause before JARVIS answered. “He will be shortly, Captain Rogers. If you wish, I can have him meet you down here.”

“That would be great.”

Clint frowned at him, clearly suspicious, but he didn’t say anything, instead settling back on his bunk. Not knowing what to say, Steve leaned against a wall, waiting in surprisingly comfortable silence for Tony to show up.

Tony strode off the elevator, holding something in his hand. “Okay,” he said briskly. “Let’s get this party started. Give me your right hand.”

When Clint did, Tony cuffed something around his wrist. “JARVIS, activate tracker.”

“Tracker activated.”

“Good.” Tony looked at Clint. “Fair warning. There’s no way you’re getting that off. You try to run and we’ll find you. Got it?”

“Run?” Clint asked, confused. He looked around the cell. “How would I run?”

Tony looked at Steve. “You didn’t tell him?” Steve shook his head and Tony rolled his eyes. “Figures. Well, my work here is done. Have fun, kids!”

After they watched Tony stroll away, Clint looked at Steve. “What’s he talking about?”

Steve pushed away from the wall. “I’ll show you. Follow me.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and he made no move to follow. “You’re letting me out? Why?”

“Because you’re not a prisoner and you don’t need to be kept in a cell and watched every minute of the day. Come on.”

Turning toward the elevator, he walked toward it without looking back. After a moment, he heard nearly silent footsteps following and bit back a smile. In the elevator, Clint was completely silent, eyes fixed firmly on the door. His eyes widened as they stepped out onto the common room and Steve took a moment to look at the area with fresh eyes. Steve knew they lived well, thanks to Tony’s generosity, but none of them cared for lavish displays of wealth. However, to someone like Clint, what they took for granted everyday must seem amazing.

He also took note of the way Clint’s gaze flickered back and forth across the room and knew that he was looking for exits and weapons. Bucky and Natasha did the same thing, and Steve always surveyed new surroundings. It was second nature and Clint probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it. “This way,” Steve said and led the way to the library.

Clint gasped softly when Steve opened the doors. Bookcases lined every wall and were crammed with books. Comfortable, overstuffed couches and chairs were scattered across the floor, letting the reader lounge where they wanted.

Steve gestured to the room. “Pick what you want. I believe the science fiction section it on the left.”

Slowly, Clint walked forward, eyes roaming over the spines of the books. He kept his hands clasped tightly behind his back, almost like a child would to keep themselves from touching. Steve sat down on one of the couches, content to wait until Clint had found something.

But the minutes dragged on with Clint looking, but never taking anything. Steve cleared his throat. “No rush, but when you do choose, you can read anywhere on the common floor that you like.”

Turning around, Clint let his hands fall to the side, flexing them for a moment. “Why are you doing this?”

“Letting you choose books? Because I don’t know what you’d like.”

“No! I mean, why are you doing _this_?!” He gestured to himself and the whole room. “Why are you wasting your time on trying to be nice to me?”

“Maybe we just want to help you,” Steve said gently. Clint let out a strange sound, something between a snort and a laugh. He started to pace.

“But why? It doesn't make any sense. Why would you help me? I'm a killer. I tried to murder your director. Why would you want to help me?” He ran his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands in frustration.

It was a conversation they’re had before and likely would many more times. “Was it your idea? Did _you_ want to kill those people?” Steve still stayed in his seat, but he watched Clint very carefully.

“No! You know that.” He stared at Steve desperately. “But that doesn’t change what I did.”

“They kidnapped you when you were a child. They held you prisoner for fifteen years now. They forced you to do things you don't want to do and tortured you if you didn’t. They threatened to maim and mutilate you to keep you in line. Right?”

Clint stopped his pacing and his intense gaze focused on Steve for a long minute before he finally nodded. “But I’m still-”

“No, Hawkeye.” Steve interrupted him, keeping his tone gentle. “You're a victim, too. And you deserve to be saved.”

“No... No, I don't deserve it. I... I'm a murderer. Do you have any idea how many lives I've taken? I don't deserve to be saved.” He shook his head vehemently and started to pace again.

“Hawkeye,” Steve said and rose. He blocked his pacing and when Clint looked up at him, Steve placed his hands on his shoulders, carefully to not startle him, “Clint.” This time he used the name purposely, ignoring Clint’s frown. “These people, what they did to you... It’s wrong. It's wrong in every way possible, do you understand me? They hurt you and they forced you to do horrible things. The only thing you could do was obey. There was no choice for you. _You_ are a victim just as much as anyone else, and you _deserve_ to be saved. And do you know why I'm sure of this? Because the moment you had the choice, you hesitated. You got punished for your hesitation, am I right?” Clint looked at him for a few seconds and then nodded.

“Whenever you had a choice, a _real_ choice, you chose not to kill. You didn't kill your brother, you didn't kill Coulson, and even though you had more than one chance to kill him, you didn't kill Bucky, and you didn't kill anyone of SHIELD when they had surrounded you. And I'm pretty sure that you could've taken quite a few with you if you had wanted to. You are not a killer, Clint, you are a victim.” Steve still had his hands on his shoulders and now he could feel the other man starting to tremble.

“No... I... I'm not... I'm...” His lip twitched, he shook his head again, his inner turmoil readily apparent.

“Clint,” once again he used the name on purpose, “listen to me. You’re not a tool to be used. You are a human being and not something to be used and then thrown away. You deserve the chance to have your own life. And I'm here to help you. _We_ want to help you.”

“No... I...” he started again and Steve saw that he was losing the struggle to keep his composure. He struggled a little in Steve’s hold, but Steve’s instincts told him that it would be wrong to let him go now. Clint hadn’t known a single moment of human decency in the last fifteen years, had probably never been touched without the expectation of being hurt. So Steve listened to his instincts a little more and stepped forward to do something that sure as hell no one had done to Clint since he’d been kidnapped.

He hugged him.

“It's okay,” Steve murmured quietly when he felt Clint tense up immediately. “You're safe. No one can hurt you.” He heard his breath hitch. “You're safe. I promise you no one will hurt you like that ever again.”

“Please,” Clint started, but then he couldn't hold back any longer and Steve felt him starting to sob, felt wetness when the first tear dropped on his shoulder and tightened his hold when Clint finally lost control. He clung to Steve and shook with violent sobs. Steve moved them carefully to a couch without breaking the contact so they could both sit down. He didn't know how much time passed as they just sat there and Clint cried. Steve just held him, murmuring quiet reassurances until the sobs finally subsided.

“Sorry,” Clint mumbled when he had regained control and pulled back.

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Steve let him go when he tried to sit up. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the handkerchief Tony teased him about and offered it to Clint.

Clint took it with a watery laugh. “Thanks.” He wiped his face and blew his nose.

“Keep it,” Steve said when Clint looked like he was going to try to hand it back, earning him another weak chuckle. “Do you want to look at the books again?”

Taking a deep breath, Clint nodded, pushing himself to his feet. He didn’t say anything, but he did pull a couple books off the shelf. It was a start.


	23. Chapter 23

Over the next few days, Steve made it point to take Clint out of his cell every day, at least for a few hours. Clint seemed surprised each time Steve let him out, but he was gradually beginning to warm up. He enjoyed the library and common room freely, reading and watching whatever caught his eye. While he seemed to be warming up at least a little to Steve, he was still a little wary around the others. Steve didn’t fault him for it, but he hoped that eventually Clint would be able to relax and trust them. And if Steve were careful and timed his questions right, he could get Clint to reveal more details about his past.

Clint was even beginning to ask a few questions of his own. Nothing major, but Steve figured any interest in the world outside and a life after this was over was a good sign.

Real progress came one day when Steve was getting them lunch, serving up two plates of leftover lasagna and grabbing a couple cans of soda. They’d discovered Clint had a bad habit of binging on junk food if they let him, not that Steve could blame him. He didn’t want to deny Clint indulging in things he liked, but he tried to make sure he didn’t overdo it. He called Clint over to the breakfast bar.

“Have you ever read 'Fahrenheit 451'?” Clint asked as he sat down.

“Not yet, but it's on my list.”

“I finished it today. You should read it. It's good.” 

“Maybe I’ll read that next, then.”

Clint nodded and bent his head toward his plate, eating in silence. Steve had never realized how many little social skills people used every day until he’d started interacting with Clint, who was largely deficient in them. He didn’t know how to make small talk, especially not while eating, so meals that they ate together always felt a little awkward to Steve.

As usual, Clint finished first. He sat, fidgeting with his fork. Steve thought that he wanted to say something, but had no idea how to start it. He was on the verge of prompting him, but then Clint straightened up and looked at him. “The pictures you had drawn... Did you find anything?”

Of all the things, Steve wasn’t expecting Clint to want to know. “We’re still working on it, but we found out the name of the eye doctor. Or at least, we're pretty sure we did. They’re good at removing any traces. But Tony won’t give up. He likes a challenge.”

“You found the eye doctor?” Clint set his fork down hard and turned toward Steve.

“His name is Corey Gable,” Steve answered the unspoken question. Tony found him in an college yearbook. I'll show you the picture later and you can tell us if you think it’s him.”

“Okay, sure.” He was quiet for another few minutes, trying to be still, but still clearly restless. Since he managed to ask his question last time, Steve let him ask at his own pace.

As they were putting the dishes in the dishwasher, Clint suddenly blurted, “I used to read your comic books.”

“My comic books?” Steve asked blankly.

“The Captain America ones? I read them when I was a kid whenever I could get them cheap.”

“Oh.” Steve felt himself blushing. “Yeah, those. I always thought they were kind of corny.”

“They totally were,” Clint admitted, grinning and shaking his head. Steve was momentarily stunned. He’d never seen Clint actually happy, and the way it changed his face was incredible. For a moment, he could see the man Clint had been denied the chance to become.

“But I wanted to ask, are you related to the original Captain America at all? Or did S.H.I.E.L.D. just decide to bring back the persona and uniform?”

“Neither,” Steve said slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. Clint’s brows raised. Steve shrugged. “I _am_ Captain America, the one from back then.”

“What? But...” Clint stared at him disbelievingly.

Steve nodded, understanding the confusion. “It’s hard to believe, I know, but I was frozen for seventy years. I crashed a plane into an ice field. The super soldier serum kept me alive. Suspended animation of something. S.H.I.E.L.D. found me last year.”

Clint looked at him for a very long moment without saying something. “That’s...wow. Just, uh, I’m glad they found you.”

“Trust me, I feel the same.” He gave Clint a searching look. “I’m glad we found you, too.”

Clint ducked his head and didn’t say anything. Steve closed the door to the dishwasher and looked around. “Do you want to watch TV or something?”

“Actually...how long have I been here?”

“Nine days, I think. Why?”

“Do you think that…that it'd be possible for me to...” Clint started, stopped himself and bit his lip. “I'm used to working out and training every day. I... I need to do something. I feel like I'm getting ready to jump out of my skin.” He swallowed and then hunched his shoulders. “If not, that’s okay. I get it.”

“No, no,” Steve said quickly. “We have a gym on one of the floors that’s restricted to just us. I can take you there if you want.”

“Really?” His eyes lit up and he smiled at Steve, stealing his breath again. He wondered how Clint would look when he was this happy all the time.

_Stop it_ , he told himself. It was inappropriate to have thoughts like those about someone in Clint’s position.

“You okay?” Clint asked and Steve realized he’d fallen silent.

He swallowed but nodded. “Yes, yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go to the gym. Oh! Wait. Tony built a range here for Bucky, since he’s a sniper. Would you like to try that?”

“You’d trust me with a gun?” Clint asked, shocked.

“I was thinking your bow, actually.”

“My bow…” Clint seemed at a loss for words. His hands twitched. “You...you’d let me use it?”

“Yeah, of course. As long as you promise not to shoot yourself with it.” Steve winced inwardly at the joke. It was in poor taste.

“Shoot myself with a bow.” He lifted one brow and Steve could see his mouth twitch in amusement. “I'm good but I'm not sure if I could manage that. But I promise to behave.”

“Okay, great! JARVIS, could you ask Bucky to bring the bow and some arrows to the range if he’s not busy?”

“Of course, Captain Rogers.”

“This way.” Steve led Clint down to the range. When they entered, not only was Bucky there, but so was Tony and Natasha. Steve lifted his brow when he saw all of them. Clint hesitated for a brief moment, but then shook his hesitancy off.

“Hey, why are all of you here?” Steve looked at the other two Avengers.

“We wanted to see,” Tony said and grinned.

“What do you want to see?” He folded his arms in front of his chest and stared down at the genius.

“ _The amazing Hawkeye!_ I want to see him in action.”

“I don’t think-”

“It's okay,” Clint said and nodded at Steve who moved back a few steps. Then they heard the door and Thor and Bruce strolled in. Steve saw Clint flinch.

“All of you?” he sighed

“Coulson is still in the elevator,” Bruce said and Steve rolled his eyes.

“Sorry, this wasn't what I had in mind.”

Clint shook his head. “It's okay, I used to perform in front of crowds. Remember?”

“Come on, Cap, how often do I have the chance to watch someone who made Agent go gray?” Stark grinned.

“You mean, except for every time you look into the mirror?” Bucky suggested. Tony stuck his tongue at him.

“Are they always like this?” Clint whispered to Steve who just pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I'm afraid so.” He turned when he heard the door again and this time Phil limped in, a case in his hand.

“Captain Rogers?” he said, unspoken question in his voice.

“I’m vouching for him, sir. He’s not going to attempt to hurt anyone or escape.”

“I won't.” Clint waited until Phil looked at him. “It's too late for me to go back, even if I wanted to. But I don’t.”

Phil gave Clint a long look, his expression bland, and then he nodded and handed Steve the case. With Clint following, he went to the side where the weapons lockers were. He opened the case on a table there and from the corner of his eye saw Clint reach for it before stopping himself. Steve gestured for him to take it. Carefully, like it was something very precious, Clint lifted the bow from the case.

Clint didn’t immediately go to the shooting area. Instead he inspected his bow, running loving hands over it, checking it for any imperfections. Steve watched him, watched his hands when he strung it and readied it for it's use with practiced hands. When the bow was ready, Clint laid it down. He stretched his arms, rolled his shoulders and moved his head from side to side to loosen the muscles, and then he nodded at Steve.

He took the quiver and filled it with arrows, strapped it on his back and went to the lane where the targets were set up. Steve stepped back to stand with the others. He could see Bucky watching Clint intently. Clint took a deep breath and then he nocked the first arrow, drew the string back, held it for a moment and then released. The arrow punched through the paper, but even from this distance, they could see where it hit. Bulls eye. He shot a few more arrows, and Steve could see that Phil hadn’t exaggerated about Clint’s abilities.

Clint turned back to look at the group. “Are the targets movable?” he asked Tony.

“Yeah, sure,” he answered. “JARVIS, let’s give him a challenge, see how good he is.”

“Yes, sir. Any preferences?” the AI asked.

“Unpredictable would be nice,” he said and Bucky lifted one brow. Everyone knew that Bucky prided himself on his sharpshooting abilities, and Steve knew that his natural competitiveness would make him very interested in Clint’s skills.

The range was highly-customizable, so that Bucky and Natasha could practice difficult shots. JARVIS took a few minutes, darkening the range so they couldn’t see as he rearranged the lane for Clint's requirements.

“A number of targets have been arranged. A light will indicate which target to shoot. Some of the targets are fixed, others move to increase the level of difficulty,” he explained.

“Sounds good,” Clint said.

“Ready when you are, sir,” JARVIS added.

Clint nodded. “Okay, let’s go,” Clint said. The first light appeared on a target to his right. In one smooth motion, he nocked an arrow, drew and released, already turning for the next target before the arrow embedded in the target. It took him a few moments to get accustomed to the set up, but he was soon in the zone, moving and firing with a grace that was almost hypnotic.

When he was out of arrows, Clint lowered the bow by his side and looked at Steve.

“93% accuracy,” Jarvis announced and Bucky snorted..

“See, I told you he's not as good as me,” he whispered to Natasha.

“You use this range every day. It was his first time. JARVIS, what was Bucky’s accuracy on his first day on this range?”

“91%, Agent Romanoff,” the AI said and she cocked her head, a tiny smile on her lips, patted Bucky's cheek.

“Quod erat demonstrandum, darling.”

“My question is why a bow?” Tony said, moving to stand next to Clint. “I mean, a gun is a hell of a lot more effective than a bow.”

“I don't like guns,” Clint said quietly. “They’re loud and messy and conspicuous. People are trained to look for them. Besides, the fear factor a bow provides is useful.”

“Fear factor? I don't understand.” Tony frowned.

A tiny smile flitted over Clint’s mouth. “Imagine you're standing there and, out of nowhere and with no sound, the guy beside you suddenly drops dead beside you with an arrow in his eye.”

Tony paled a little bit. “Oh, that fear factor.”

“Why the eye?” Phil asked suddenly. “Why that M.O.?

Gripping his bow in both hands, Clint shrugged. “It's a quick death. They… they used to say that it was my trademark, a way to spread fear amongst their enemies. I just didn’t want my targets to suffer.”

“But wouldn’t a gun be faster?” Stark asked.

Clint shrugged. “A skilled archer is faster than you think. Besides, speed doesn’t matter as much when you always hit your target the first time.”

Bucky huffed. “Like you’re that good without a scope.”

For the first time, Steve saw irritation flash across Clint’s face. Maybe even anger. “You against me,” he said. “Six rounds versus six arrows. Steady targets.”

“You’re on.” He drew a gun from his thigh holster and chambered a round, stepping up beside Clint as JARVIS set new targets.

“Ready?” Clint asked when the targets were set, a hard target for him and a paper one for Bucky.

“Ready. JARVIS?”

“Yes, Agent Barnes. In three, two, one...” the AI counted down, and as soon as he stopped, they both fired.

“Jesus,” Tony breathed when he saw the targets. Bucky’s had tight grouping, almost all dead center, each one a kill shot on its own. But Clint’s target… The first arrow had struck dead center, the other five arrows so close around it that they were touching where they were embedded.

“I guess that explains why they called you 'The Amazing Hawkeye,'” Natasha said appreciatively. Bucky huffed and left the range, and with an apologetic smile Natasha followed him.

“That was really impressive,” Bruce said, uncrossing his arms.

“Indeed. I am glad you allowed us to see your skill,” Thor added.

With a final nod, Bruce turned to go, casually pulling Thor along with him.

Clint unstrung his bow and then handed it back to Steve, along with the quiver. “Thank you. That was...nice,” he said, standing close to Steve’s side. Steve could feel the heat he gave off, see the slight flush of exertion on his cheeks.

“Um, no problem. Let's, uh, go back to your room,” he said and handed the bow case to Phil. He didn't see the knowing look the agent shared with Tony when he and Clint left the range and went to the elevator.

“Do you think your friend hates me now?” Clint asked when they exited.

“Bucky? No. His ego’s just a little bruised.”

“Can you tell him I'm sorry?”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he said gently.

Clint smiled at him. “Thank you,” he said again.

“Anytime.”


	24. Chapter 24

When Steve came back to the communal living room, the rest of the team was gathered there. Bruce was playing chess with Thor, something they did frequently since Bruce had taught him how to play. Bucky and Tony were watching an episode of Star Trek, bickering about the scientific inaccuracy while Natasha lounged on the couch beside Bucky, her feet in his lap.

There was the usual glance in his direction from everyone—they were incapable of not checking when someone entered a room—but Tony turned all of his attention away from the TV to fix on Steve.

“Um...hi?” Steve said, not sure what was going on.

Tony smirked at him, waving at one of the empty armchairs. With a sigh, Steve went over to sit down and looked at Tony.

“What?” he finally asked when the other man didn’t say anything, just kept staring.

“Come on, Steve...” Tony said, grin getting wider

“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Steve asked the rest of the room. “Tony’s acting weird, even for himself.”

“You have the hots for the archer!” Tony blurted.

“What?!” Steve’s head whipped back around to look at Tony. “No! I—”

“Hello, this is me you're talking to,” Tony insisted, waggling his brows. “You want to tap that.”

“I am not—“

“It’s okay if you are,” Bucky threw in, but didn’t say anything else when Steve glared at him.

“Yes, fine, I like him, but not the way you’re thinking. He's nice and he's alone down in his cell and I only want to...to keep company to him because...because he's alone and...” He closed his mouth the moment he realized that he didn’t sound convincing.

Steve pressed his lips together and got up, heading to the elevator.

“Idiot,” Natasha muttered. He didn't look back to see who she was talking about.

“Steve, wait.” Natasha came up next to him just as the doors slid open. She ducked inside with him, pushing the door closed button, but not choosing a floor.

“Don’t take what they said to heart,” she said. “It’s clear that you like Clint. He seems like a nice guy and he’s a sympathetic figure. And you like to help people. Tony and Bucky are reading more into that and they like to tease. Don’t let it bother you.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “I know they don’t mean any harm, but isn’t someone allowed to have friends without everyone assuming it’s more than that?”

“Of course they are. You know that. Just ignore them.” She squeezed his arm. Then she pursed her lips. “Of course, if you _are_ interested in him like that...” She held up a hand to cut off his protest. “If you _are_ , just keep in mind that none of us care. Outside of security concerns, of course.”

Steve closed his eyes for a second and shook his head. “Yeah, okay, I get it. But...” The planned _there isn't anything between me and him_ he wanted to say didn’t come.

“Come back to the living room? They’ll leave you alone.”

“No, thanks. I’m going to go down to the gym.” Natasha nodded in understanding and opened the elevator doors. Steve pressed the button for the gym floor, but nothing happened.

He pressed the button, but the doors remained open. “That’s strange,” he muttered and Natasha furrowed her brows as well. 

“Tony? Did you fiddle with the elevators?” she called over her shoulder.

“Why would I do that?” he called back. “No way I’m gonna take the stairs to get up and down the Tower.” A few seconds later he appeared next to Natasha. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“The elevator’s not working,” Steve answered. He pressed the button again to demonstrate.

Tony pursed his lips. “JARVIS?” There was no answer and he frowned harder, looking toward where one of the cameras was. “JARVIS?” he repeated, this time louder and more insistent. “That’s not good,” he muttered and went back to the living room to get his StarkPad, Steve and Natasha following. The others were watching with interest. Tony tapped on the tablet with the others shared concerned looks.

“What’s the problem?” Steve asked, but Tony didn’t acknowledge him, continuing to tap away.

“JARVIS?” he tried again and this time the AI answered.

“What can I do for you, sir?” 

“Run a self-diagnostic. You glitched again,” Tony ordered.

“Sir?” JARVIS asked and Tony frowned, tapping on his StarkPad once more.

“JARVIS, what was my last command?” he asked.

“What can I do for you, sir?” JARVIS repeated and Tony started to curse under his breath.

“JARVIS, initiate Protocol 12-554,” Tony said, not looking up from his StarkPad.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked.

Frowning down at the pad, Tony shook his head. “Nothing serious. We had a hacker attack a few days ago and that bastard left some bugs in the system. I thought I had gotten them all, but it looks like I missed something.”

Everyone looked shocked, so clearly that was news to all of them.

“And you never thought to tell any of us?” Steve asked, barely managing to keep the anger out of his voice. “Especially with Clint here?”

“Cap, calm down, okay? We have hacker attacks all the time. Most don’t even get through JARVIS’s first line of defense, but occasionally, one of them is smart enough to make it deeper into the system. That’s all that happened. Just someone messing around. It’s nothing we can’t handle.” 

“You said JARVIS glitched ‘again.’ What are other problems have you had?” Natasha asked.

Tony shrugged. “Like I said, minor stuff. Lights turning on or off, a few doors locking or unlocking, the thermostat settings changing. And now the elevator.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a ghost,” Bucky laughed. “I’m glad it’s not Halloween. That might be a little freaky.”

“If there’s any danger, we need to know, Tony,” Steve insisted.

“And if it were dangerous, I would’ve told you. What did you want me to do? Tell you, ‘Gee, Cap, someone hacked into the tower settings and now the rooms are set for seventy-one degrees instead of sixty-eight?” 

When it was put like that, it did sound ridiculous. The sound of the elevator doors closing interrupted his response, and everyone turned to look as the empty car went down to the gym level.

“There? See? All fixed,” Tony said.

“Just keep us updated,” Steve sighed, calling the elevator again and stepping in when the doors opened. This time, the doors slid shut when he pushed the button on the panel. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Steve leaned back against the wall of the cabin.


	25. Chapter 25

He had meant to press the button for the gym, but when the doors opened, he found himself on another floor. The floor where Clint's _cell_ was.

_Damn_ , he thought. Somehow his subconscious had directed him here. Well, he wasn’t going to tell Tony, that would only give him more fuel to tease him with. He almost left, but since he was already there, he might as well check in on Clint.

He found Clint on his bunk, his legs drawn up and balancing a book on his knees. He’d meant to just peek in, but Clint sensed him and looked up. Once again, he smiled and Steve's heart skipped a beat.

_Damn_ , he thought again. Maybe Tony’s claim wasn’t _completely_ without merit.

When he didn’t respond, Clint furrowed his brows. “Did something happen?” he asked, closing his book and getting up to come to the glass wall.

“What? Uh, no. No. Actually, I was on my way to the gym and...” _And I pressed the wrong button didn’t seem like a good way to continue._ “And wanted to ask you if you still, um, want to go there?” Why was he this nervous now when he hadn’t been before? Just because of Tony's remark?

Clint's smile broadened and he nodded. “Sure. If it's not too late?”

“No, I, uh, I'm often there at this time.” Entering his code to open the door, he waited for Clint to step out.

“That’s fine by me,” he said. When Clint passed by, his arm accidentally brushed Steve's and...he had to admit he liked it.

_Damn_ , he cursed for the third time. _Damn you, Tony!_

Clint waited for Steve to lead the way and followed him to the elevator. Together they stepped into the cabin and this time Steve made sure he pressed the button for the right floor. A few moments later, they entered the gym and Clint looked around, slightly stunned. Of course Tony's gym was first class, with the best of everything, and even someone accustomed to gyms would be amazed.

Steve pointed to a door and Clint followed him to the locker room where they kept their stuff. His own stuff was in his locker, but he went to where they kept the extra clothes and grabbed a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He looked at Clint's feet and grabbed Bruce's sneakers.

“I think they should fit. We’ll get you set up with your own stuff tomorrow.”

Clint looked at the stuff, and then at Steve before he smiled and nodded. Without hesitation, he shrugged out of his track suit. Steve quickly turned around to give him some privacy and change into his own clothes. Still, he couldn’t resist a tiny glance back...and then he stopped and stared. He’d been told that Clint had scars, but he hadn’t expected them to be _that_ bad. With that sixth sense he seemed to have, Clint turned around and quickly jerked his shirt down to cover himself as fast as possible, face flushing.

“Sorry! I-I'm sorry, I didn't-” he started, but Steve shook his head and raised a hand to stop him.

“No, Cl-Hawkeye. Don't. You don't need to apologize.”

“I know I'm ugly,” Clint murmured quietly, looking away and tugging on the hem of his shirt.

“No, god no, you're not ugly,” Steve said quickly and then bit his tongue. He hadn't meant to say it like that. The last thing he wanted to do was make Clint feel uncomfortable. But when he looked up, he saw Clint staring at him, his head tilted, an unreadable expression on his face. Steve felt himself blush and he turned away, swallowing. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “You're definitely not ugly, quite the contrary,” he mumbled.

“Why…? I mean, why would you say that?” Clint asked.

Steve closed his eyes in desperation, but he finally turned around and faced Clint. “Because it's true,” he admitted.

Clint looked down at himself before he looked back at Steve, frowning. “Suit used to call me an ugly gnome.”

“He's an idiot,” he blurted out once again before he could stop himself, blushing harder. Tony was going to have a field day if he ever found out about this. Knowing when it was time to beat a tactful retreat, he squared his shoulders and looked back at Clint. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” the other man said quickly, his own cheeks still red.

“So, what do you want to do first?” he asked once they were in the gym.

“Treadmill,” Clint answered after a few seconds of looking around. Steve nodded. For the next half hour they ran beside each other in silence, but Steve saw Clint occasionally glance his way, still with that unreadable expression on his face. Right now he wished he had more experience in reading people. Maybe he should ask Natasha for tips.

Half an hour later they were both done with the treadmills. Steve was going to go to the punching bags when Clint spotted the boxing ring in a corner of the gym and turned to Steve, a grin on his face. “You want to spar?”

Steve was speechless for a few seconds. _Clint had to know that he was serum enhanced, didn't he?_ But when Clint cocked his head again, Steve couldn't repress a smile and shrugged.

“Sure, why not?” They walked and Steve went to a rack to grab some gloves and hand wraps. He gave a set to Clint before he put his own on. He watched Clint remove his shoes and socks and after a few seconds of deliberation followed suit.

“MMA? Or do you prefer a specific style?” Clint asked while he climbed into the ring.

“MMA is fine, but...” he started but Clint grinned again and once more Steve felt his heart jump.

“I'm pretty good, at least as far as I know.” Clint shrugged and started to dance around and loosen his shoulders.

“All right, then.” Steve grinned as well and stepped into the ring. He nodded to signal that he was ready and about three seconds later he found himself lying on the floor and staring up disbelievingly at the smaller man. With a smirk, Clint reached down and helped him up.

“Wow, that was...fast,” he said and got ready again. After the first few minutes–and two more contacts with the floor–he was starting to get a feel for Clint's fighting style. It was a mix of many different styles that he’d seen the others use, as well as a few street tricks. It was unconventional, but effective. And not only was Clint skilled, he was fast and agile, nearly as much as Natasha.

Now, that he had figured out his style, Steve could land a few blows of his own, and at one point he even managed to pin Clint to the floor. He leaned over him, breathing heavily, and their faces only inches apart, enjoying finally getting the upper hand. And when Clint swallowed and licked over his lip, Steve had to stop himself from doing anything he would regret afterward.

“Good move,” Clint admitted when Steve helped him up and they stood face to face again. He looked at him for a few more seconds before they went back to their sparring match. Though Steve had come out on top once, Clint didn’t make it easy for him. Clint managed to throw him down with a throwing technique just a few seconds later and this time—against all rules—he straddled him and held him down, pinning his wrists to the mat. Steve went stock-still and looked at Clint, at the tiny smirk around his lips, and he wondered what those lips would feel like against him.

But then the moment passed and Clint let him up. He moved backwards and when Steve was standing, he started to dance around again. They traded blows before Steve was able to take him down again he lay there, gasping. And when Steve held him the way he’d been held just minutes ago, Clint swallowed and parted his lips.

And then he leaned up, closing the distance between them, and brushed Steve's lips with his. Steve wasn’t shocked—he’d felt the tension between them—but he was surprised that Clint had made a move. He hadn't expected that. Slowly, Steve let go of Clint's wrists and brace his hands on the sides of Clint’s head. He looked in his eyes and wished Clint wasn’t so damn unreadable. He leaned down, slowly, and pressed his lips to Clint’s. After a moment’s pause, Clint opened his mouth slightly. Gloved hands slipped up on his shoulders, pulling him down, and he complied, deepening the kiss and brushed Clint's lips with his tongue. Clint responded clumsily and a little hesitantly. In the back of his mind, Steve wondered if this was Clint’s first kiss. He kept the kiss gentle, more teasing, until Clint felt confident enough to kiss back.

When Clint dared to slip his own tongue into Steve’s mouth, Steve moaned. Clint’s hands tightened on his shoulders and kissed harder, almost desperate. When Steve pulled back to breathe, Clint moaned, the sound going straight to Steve’s cock like a jolt of electricity. He dove back into the kiss.

When the need to breathe became to pressing, they finally parted but Steve didn't move back too far. “Wow,” he murmured and got a smile in response. “I didn't see that coming.”

But that might have been the wrong thing to say. Clint's smile faltered. “Sorry, I didn't want to embarrass you,” he mumbled and looked away. Once again, Steve wanted to smack himself.

“No, no, you didn’t embarrass me. Not at all. I really just didn't expect it. But I liked it. A lot.” He moved back a bit and let Clint sit up. “Really, I liked it.”

“Really?” Clint looked up, a hint of hope in his eye.

“Yes, really. It was...pretty great.” He smiled, hoping to reassure Clint.

“So you really liked it?” Clint asked again, and when Steve nodded, he smiled, the same happy, honest smile that gave Steve butterflies. So he leaned forward and kissed him again, his arm wrapped around the Clint’s waist.

“So you weren’t kidding,” he laughed when they parted again.

“Not even a little,” Steve answered, smiling back.

“It's just...because Buck always called me...faggot and...and stuff like that... And Barney, too. I really didn't want...” Steve shushed him with a finger over his lips.

“Don't. No one will call you that. Not as long as I have a say in this. It's okay, you know?” Clint finally nodded and Steve rose and helped him up. They both removed their gloves and Steve took Clint's hand. “Don't worry, everything will be okay. I promise.”

“Steve?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. Again.”


	26. Chapter 26

Tony loved challenges. He’d always loved them and he was pretty sure he always would, even if they sometimes drove him crazy. But _this_ current challenge was one for the books. Not that he expected anything else from an organization who could make people disappear, who had the power _and_ the money behind them to run a massive organization, who could send killers after senators and even Fury.

“Hey, how's it going?” he heard Bruce ask and grinned. Someone else who loved a challenge. Good, maybe Bruce could help. His grin broadened when a steaming cup of coffee appeared in front of him.

“It's...complicated,” he admitted, gesturing to display his data for Bruce. “I've written a program that can compare the sketches Steve gave me to missing people. It’s a little hit or miss, but I think I've found two of them. The first is the guy Clint calls Suit. If I'm right, then Suit’s name is actually Carl Martel. He disappeared in 1961 from his school in New Jersey at the age of six.”

“You’re not sure if it’s him?” Bruce asked, looking at the images.

“It's only a 63% match. If I had a photo to work with, I’d be more certain. But all we’ve got is a sketch and the program had to de-age it and and age up the photograph to compare…” He made an irritated noise of frustration. “Hell, I'm not sure.There’s no way to know for sure, no until we catch the bastard. There are just too many variables. There’s no way—”

“Tony,” Bruce interrupted him. “Come on. Take a break.”

Tony ignored him, too caught up in his explanation. “I am pretty sure about the other guy, though. The doctor. His sketch seems to match a Dr. Stephen Williams, who ‘died’ sixteen years ago, when his car was hit by a truck.”

He displayed the sketch and the picture side by side. Bruce nodded, eyes narrowing. “That does look like him.”

“Right?” Tony said quickly. “And get this. Three weeks after he ‘died,’ his whole family disappeared. Wife, kids, even the family dog. And they haven’t been seen since. I don’t believe in coincidences, Bruce. There’s a connection there.”

“I agree, but working yourself into exhaustion isn’t going to help.”

Tony flapped a hand at him. “Please, I’ll be fine.” He drained the cup of coffee in a few long swallows. “There, good to go.”

Bruce side-eyed him. “How long have you been down here?”

“I don't know. What day is it today?”

“Tony!”

“Kidding, kidding!” Tony held up his hands. “Just a few hours, honestly. I went out with Pepper and then I couldn’t sleep. Figured I might as well get some work done.”

“You don’t have to do everything at once, Tony,” Bruce chided gently. “We’ve got time to figure this out.”

“Do we really?” Tony asked, completely serious. “They’ve got an entire organization to create perfect killers. They almost got _Fury_ , and then we captured one of their assassins. Kind of makes us targets, don’t you think?” He frowned at his displays. “They’re good, Bruce. We could be going to movies, or to get a burger, and bam! Done, end of line. Or we’ll have a convenient fall in the shower or down a flight of stairs. We signed up to be Avengers, not this. And I’m not willing to risk Pepper or Happy or Rhodey because some asshole is trying to get me.”

“Tony...”

“We need to shut them down as fast as possible. That's why I wrote this program, that’s why I’m looking so hard. They can't be so good that they didn't make mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Does that include you?” Bruce grinned.

Tony made a face. “I didn't say that.” He looked into the empty mug and grimaced. “The next goal is finding where they are, not just who they are. Clint described the base where he's been held. He said it's mostly underground, and if they’re smart, there won’t be much of a visible footprint. We can look by satellite, but I’m not expecting much.”

“There has to be something, some sort of infrastructure.”

“That’s my thought. If the base is as large as Clint says, then they need a lot of resources: energy, food, water, transportation, fuel and space to house quinjets. And there's the 'in the middle of nowhere' thing. There _has_ to be some civilization nearby or it would be too suspicious. Imagine you're really in the middle of nowhere and you see a few small buildings with fences and trucks and quinjets and people and nothing around for miles. That screams secret base. It would be the next Area 51. People would talk about it.”

“It's possible that no one has found it yet.”

“Possible, but highly unlikely. And then there are the families. Williams can’t be the only one who had his family disappear along with him. Whether they’re blackmail material or were simply relocated, they have to live somewhere. If I were an evil conspirator, I wouldn't want to have the families of my minions on base. Too risky. No, there has to be something like a small town nearby, where they live with their families. And my evil lair would be masked as some sort of workplace. They have children, they need schools, and I'm pretty sure they don't want their children to know what Mommy and Daddy do for a living. Make it look normal and no one would suspect anything when stuff gets delivered to a small town. That would be the perfect cover.”

“You've thought a lot about it.” Bruce pursed his lips and took away the empty mug so Tony couldn't play with it any longer.

“Yeah, well. The play was boring as hell.” He rolled his eyes. “They sang, Bruce!”

Bruce couldn't repress a grin. He knew how much Tony hated those plays. but he went anyway because Pepper loved them and he loved her. He was more tamed than he would ever admit.

“What about the location, any ideas?” he asked and Tony sighed.

“Given what he told us, I’m starting my search in the mid-west. I’ve already started to make a list of parameters for a search…” He turned back to his keyboard.

Bruce shook his head. “That can wait, Tony. Even a genius like you needs to sleep.”

“Rumors, just rumors,” Tony grinned, but he let Bruce pull him away and into the elevator to take them upstairs.

 

***

 

Cleaner 22-05 sat in the vents, silent and still. Stark and Banner had had a very interesting conversation. Chief was right. They knew too much. That just confirmed his orders and he knew he should carry them out at the first possible opportunity.

But they knew where S 13-98 was. He had heard hints, but this was the first time it was confirmed that the traitor was working with them. Though they called him Clint, there was no mistaking that they were talking about the traitor. 22-05 snorted slightly. Tools didn't have names. Just another sign that 13-98’s training had failed.

He stayed where he was and deliberated for a few seconds. His mission was to find out what the Avengers knew and to destroy their data. If necessary, he could eliminate one or two of them as well. A thorn needed to be removed, not allow to burrow deeper, Chief had said. He should follow through with his plan immediately.

But now he had the chance to find out where that traitor S 13-98 was. Chief had said the Boss wanted him back very badly. If he could find out where 13-98 was, and bring him back, his reward would be handsome.

As quietly as possible, he crawled back to the elevator shaft where he had short-circuited the security system. The virus he’d introduced to the AI was still working, giving him the openings he needed to move around without detection. He took the phone Chief had given him and called the number he’d never needed to call before.

“Report,” a male voice answered after only a one ring.

“Sir, this is Cleaner 22-05. I'm currently at Stark Tower, and I have an opportunity to destroy the Avengers’ data about us, but they know where Sniper 13-98 is. Do you want me to complete my mission as planned, or do you want me to eliminate or bring in the traitor?”

“Hold the line.” It went quiet, but 22-05 stayed where he was, the phone to his ear.

“Attempt to bring in Sniper 13-98, dispose of him if that’s not possible. New pick-up date is in four days.” The line went dead.

22-05 put the phone away and began to move up the elevator shaft. He needed to know more, and while Stark would remain his main focus, the others would also have information. 22-05 would watch for now, and when he had what he needed, he would destroy.


	27. Chapter 27

Steve’s eyes widened when he walked into the kitchen and saw Tony sitting at the table, his hair standing in every direction and eyes bloodshot. “Good lord, Tony! When was the last time you slept?”

“Huh?” Tony managed, looking up from where he was typing into his StarkPad.

“Tony, how long have you been here?” Steve sat down opposite of him, brows furrowed.

“I don't know. Bruce sent me to bed, but I couldn't sleep, too many ideas, and I just wanted to get some tea.”

Steve glanced at the half empty mug with cold tea and the tea bag still in it sitting at Tony’s elbow.

“Look at this, Steve,” Tony said and shoved the StarkPad in his hands. “I wrote a program to search for them. I talked to Bruce,” he looked around, realized that it wasn't night anymore and frowned for a second, “apparently last night. Okay. Anyway, searching using the sketches works, but it’s slow. But then I was talking to Bruce and I realized that there was a pattern.” Tony pointed at some columns on the StarkPad. Steve looked at it, but nothing made much sense to him. He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, ignore that.” Tony grabbed the tablet back and placed it on the table, tapping on the screen to bring up images. “We found this guy. Dr. Corey Gable. He was an ophthalmologist with his own successful clinic, but then he died in a tragic accident. Sad, right? But then get this: a few weeks later his whole family disappeared and haven’t been heard from since. Then, I found another doctor, Steven Williams. He was a psychologist. And wouldn’t you know, he _also_ died in a tragic accident and his whole family disappeared. Both doctors were well respected amongst their colleagues. And that’s not a coincidence.” He grabbed the StarkPad again and brought up three pictures. “Dr. Itsuko Sasagawa, pediatrician from Fukuoka, Japan. She died in an air crash, two months later her husband and her children moved away, with no contact since then. Dr. Braxton Turner, surgeon from Wellington, New Zealand. He went skiing and had a fatal fall. His family disappeared seven weeks later. And Edward Arbiter, behaviorist from Orlando, Florida. Fell off his yacht and drowned. His two children should move to their aunt in Massachusetts, but they never arrived there. Different years, Steve, different countries, different causes of death. No one saw a correlation. It's perfect.”

“That’s...awful,” Steve said quietly. “But you're probably right. Can I have the pictures? I’ll show them to Clint and see if he can confirm that it’s them.”

Tony nodded and tapped on the pad for a moment. “Done. Sent to your email. You can get them on your phone or tablet. Let me know what Clint says. I’m going to keep looking, but I want to know if I’m on the right track.

“Thanks, Tony. But will you please go to bed now? Or do I need to call Pepper?”

“You wouldn't...” Tony began, but when Steve just arched an eyebrow, he sighed.

“Okay, yes, you would. Why does everyone want me to go to bed all the time?” he grumbled, but couldn’t keep a small smile off his lips.

“I don't know. Probably for some obscure reason, like that we care about you?” Steve grinned.

Tony laughed. “Sarcasm? Steven, I'm proud of you.” Tony yawned and rose. “But maybe you're right. When you've fed your little birdie, you can call Coulson and show him what I've found. Let S.H.I.E.L.D. do some work, too.”

When Tony began to walk out with the StarkPad in his hand Steve, stepped up to him. “Nope,” he smiled and took it away.

Tony just looked at him unimpressed. “You know this whole tower is basically a computer, run by an AI I built, right?”

Steve shrugged. “I know, but I trust JARVIS enough to make sure you’ll actually get some sleep. You can work later.”

“Fine. Have it your way, _Mom_ ,” Tony grumbled as he left.

“Well, when I start going gray, I’ll know why.” Steve set the tablet down and moved to the fridge to start pulling things for breakfast out. He kept it simple—pancakes and sausage—and then put everything on a tray.

Steve found Clint on his bunk, resting a book on his drawn up knees, biting at a thumbnail as he read. He didn’t look up as Steve entered to door, and Steve took that as a good sign, that he felt safe enough not to have to assess everything as a potential threat.

“Good morning, Steve,” he said quietly. Steve had to repress a smile as he returned the greeting. Of course Clint knew that it was him. Clint finished his page and slipped a finger between the pages to keep his place, finally looking at Steve. There was a blush on his cheeks, but he seemed unsure, fidgeting slightly.

Steve frowned. “Hey, what's wrong?” he asked when Clint didn’t respond like usual.

“About...about last night. You know...” He blushed even more.

“The kiss?” Steve placed the tray on the table and sat down on the bed beside Clint.

“Yes. It's... Are you…? I mean...” He shut his mouth and closed his eyes for a second. Steve immediately felt bad. It was clear Clint had no experience, of course he would have no idea how to interpret what had happened last night. Before he could get further entrenched in self doubt, Steve carefully placed a hand on his cheek and turned his head so that he had to face him, Clint’s eyes flying open in surprise. And then moving carefully so Clint could see it coming, he leaned over and kissed him, slow and chaste.

When he pulled back, Clint looked at him for a few seconds before he finally started to smile. “You meant it?”

“That I liked it? Of course I meant it.” Steve took the book the other man held and placed it open on the bed beside him. He took Clint’s hand, letting his fingers trace over the calluses that came from using his bow. Clint’s smile broadened and Steve's heart made a somersault in his chest.

“Come on, breakfast is getting cold.” He let go of Clint’s hand, a little reluctantly, and they both went to the table. Steve poured them each a cup from the thermos he’d brought while Clint slid onto his seat. Steve sat on the bed, reminded again that this was a cell. He needed to see about getting Clint out of here.

“I've got something I want to show you,” Steve said when they’d finished eating, Clint savoring the rest of the coffee in the thermos as he moved back to the bed.

Steve poked around on his phone, opening the email with the pictures Tony had sent him. He held the phone out to Clint. “Do you know them?”

“Yeah, that man,” Clint pointed at Braxton Turner, “removed my appendix. And I've seen her,” he pointed at Dr. Sasagawa, “with the new...well...recruits, I guess. Like I said, contact wasn’t allowed, but sometimes it was inevitable. She was always with the...with the children.” Clint looked into his coffee cup as if it was his fault that the children were there.

“The other one?” Steve asked and Clint shook his head.

“No. I don't know him. Who's that?” He pointed at the picture of a very young Carl Martel.

“We think that could be the guy you call ‘Suit.’” Clint stared for a very long moment at the picture before he swallowed and looked at Steve, clearly shocked. “He disappeared 1961 at the age of six,” Steve explained.

“He's one of us?” Clint asked and looked at the picture again. “It's...it's possible. I mean, his age...when they...when they brought me in he was in his early forties. And...his eyes... it's possible. He's one of us?” He asked again and Steve nodded. “How...how can he do this then? I mean, if they did to him what they did to me, how can he do this? How can he be one of _them_?” Steve saw the pain in his eyes and sat down beside Clint, carefully wrapping his arms around him.

“I mean, I saw that he had a tattoo in his neck, but I never thought that he was one of us. Everyone there has one and...”

“The other man I asked you about is a behaviorist. Unlike you, Martel was young. He was probably brainwashed right when they got him.” Clint finally nodded and Steve let him go. “What about this man?” He showed him the picture of Corey Gable.

“That's the creep who wants my eyes.” Clint’s hands started to tremble and he swallowed hard.

“It's okay, he can't do anything to you. We promised, remember?”

“Yeah, I know.” Steve closed his eyes when he remembered Natasha's promise to not let them get Clint alive, and when he saw the naked fear in Clint’s eyes, he could understand it. At least a bit.

“Okay, that’s all we wanted to know. I’ll let you get back to your book since I’ve got to call Phil and fill him in. I’ll see you for lunch, okay?”

“Okay.”

Steve gathered up the dirty dishes and carried the tray back upstairs. “JARVIS?” he asked as the elevator started to move, but the AI didn't answer. “JARVIS?” he repeated as the elevator stopped and the door opened.

“Yes, sir?” the AI finally responded after a long moment as Steve stepped out. This was apparently one of the bugs Tony had mentioned.

“Do you know if Agent Coulson is currently in the tower?” It would made things much easier if he could talk to him face-to-face.

“I'm afraid he's not here, sir,” JARVIS said and Steve nodded. He would have to call him.

“Thank you,” he said as he entered the kitchen. He glanced at the table and frowned when he saw the StarkPad was gone. “JARVIS, was Tony back down here?”

“No, sir. He hasn't left his bedroom since you sent him up there,” JARVIS replied.

“Hmm.”

“Is everything all right?” JARVIS asked.

“No… It’s just that I was sure I had left the tablet there. Did someone else take it?”

“I can't tell you, sir. I haven't seen anyone take it, but I will check the recordings.”

“Do that, thanks,” Steve said, loading the dishwasher. He slipped his phone out of his pocket as he left the kitchen, dialing Phil’s number.

 

***

 

22-05 crawled back to the elevator shaft, the StarkPad in his hands. When he arrived at his nest, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Report,” the same voice like last time answered.

“Sir, this is Cleaner 22-05. I’ve confirmed that 13-98 is here in the tower.”

“Hold,” the man said and 22-05 waited patiently a few minutes.

“Stay put and observe. We'll contact you tomorrow with further instructions.” The line went dead.


	28. Chapter 28

When Bucky left the elevator on the common floor, he was greeted by Natasha. Not an unusual occurrence, but when she grinned and grabbed his arm, dragging him into the empty living room, he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. When she pushed him down onto the couch and straddled his hips, his second brow joined the first. He knew that Natasha wasn't the ice princess everyone assumed, but she had never even hinted at being interested in him. This was something completely new. She grabbed his hands and pressed them into the upholstery over his head and leaned down, kissing him passionately before she trailed her lips along his jaw to his ear.

Bucky was more than a little distracted, but he didn’t miss it when she whispered in his ear. “Don't let on, but I think we're being watched.” She dragged her hands down his arms and then cupped his face, kissing him again with a quiet moan.

“JARVIS?” Bucky whispered, burying his face in the crook of her neck and let his hands wander over her shoulders and her back.

“No, I know when JARVIS is scanning us. Someone else.” She groaned and ground her hips down into his. Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, trying to concentrate as his blood flow was rapidly diverted to other, lower body parts. There was no way Natasha couldn’t feel his interest and she chuckled throatily.

“How?” He groaned when she moved her hips and slid her hands under his shirt.

“Haven't figured out yet.” She kissed him again and pinched his nipple while biting his lower lip slightly.

“How do you know?” Bucky murmured, letting his hands slide under her shirt as well, sliding across the smooth, warm skin of her back.

“I just do. Call it instinct.” She smirked and Bucky bit his lip against a groan.

“It's like how you know how a mark will move when you're on a sniper mission,” she whispered while running her hands over his chest and nibbling at his other ear.

“Okay, and what are we going to do?” Bucky had grabbed her around the hips and sat up, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her along her jawline.

“We need to tell Tony. It's his tower, after all. If anyone can help figure it out, it’ll be him,” she murmured. And right on cue, Tony walked into the living room.

“Come on, guys! You have rooms! We use this couch!” He pointedly looked away from them.

“You don't like what you see?” Natasha teased.

“Nope. I only look at the wonderful Pepper, definitely not half naked assassins on the couch in our shared living room,” he huffed, but Natasha could hear the grin in his voice.

“Well then, come on _James_ , let's go to our room,” Natasha purred and grabbed her shirt, sauntering out of the room. But when she passed Tony, she leaned in close as if to tease him. “Meet us at the deck, five minutes,” she whispered in his ear before she took Bucky's hand. He shrugged apologetically while passing Tony and hurried after Natasha.

Tony didn't expect to find the two of them fully clothed on the deck. In fact, he wasn't sure what exactly he had expected, but it wasn’t the two of them leaning against the railing and waiting for him with their arms crossed in front of their chests.

“Okay, I’m here,” he said when he was within earshot and Natasha shook her head slightly and turned around to look at the other buildings. She leaned her arms onto the railing and Bucky did the same, so Tony followed suit.

“Well, I'm no super-spy, but you guys are acting _really_ weird, you know that?” He frowned as he stepped up next to them, leaning against the rail as well.

“Did you do anything with your surveillance system?” Natasha asked, looking at him out of the corner of her eyes.

“No, why would I? I mean, JARVIS has a few bugs right now, but the surveillance system should be fine. Why?”

Bucky answered before Natasha could. “We’re being watched.”

“What?” Tony turned toward him, but a jerk of the other man's head turned him back around.

“What do you mean we're being watched?”

“I don't know how or by whom, but I _know_ that someone is watching us,” Natasha said.

“Okay, and what do—” Tony began before he was interrupted by steps behind them.

“Ah, here you are, Tony, I've been looking for you.” Bruce walked out onto the deck, steps slowing as he neared them. “Have I missed something?”

“Just taking in the view,’ Tony said airily. “Come join us.”

When Bruce leaned against the rail on Tony’s other side, they quickly filled him in.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked.

“Nothing yet,” Natasha said. “Tony needs to get JARVIS up and running as quickly as possible. And James and I…”

“We’re going to set a trap,” Bucky said. “I have the feeling whoever is behind this has something to do with our guest.”

“And they’ll have information,” Natasha finished. “Don’t let the other know yet. The less, the better. When we’re ready, you’ll know.”

Tony’s hands tightened on the railing. “And I want to know _how_ they did this. No one hurts my baby and gets away with it.”

***

22-05 waited in the vents. A few hours ago, when he was sure he was alone, he’d disabled the security system in the kitchen ventured out to steal a few bottles of water and a handful of power bars. And while he was there, he’d taken the StarkPad that had been left out on the counter. Back in the elevator shaft, he’d drunk one bottle greedily. This was supposed to have been a short mission—go in, destroy their data, and get out. Now he had to stay, and would have to scrounge for supplies he hadn’t brought. He switched on the StarkPad and went through the information Stark had collected. He frowned at what he found. While they wouldn’t succeed, the Avengers were discovering things they shouldn’t. He put the tablet into his bag and deliberated what to do next.

Rogers apparently knew where 13-98 was. Following him would be the most prudent course. Moving to a better vantage point, he waited until he saw Rogers and then followed him as quietly as he could. It wasn't easy. Rogers had exceptional hearing and a single slip up could ruin the mission. But 22-05 managed it and Rogers led him down a few levels below the common floor. There, he found a holding cell and watching as Rogers unlocked it and stepped inside. That had to be 13-98. While he couldn’t hear very well, he could tell that they were talking, and it sounded friendly. Damn traitor! After all that had been done for him, he’d betrayed them. But he would pay for his betrayal, 22-05 was sure about that.

Leaving the floor with the holding cell, he made his way back up to where he could keep a better eye on Romanoff and Barnes.


	29. Chapter 29

“Sir, I'm afraid I have to tell you that I'm compromised.”

Tony looked up. “Compromised? You mean the glitches?” He was in his penthouse, working on another StarkPad. Steve should've known that he had more than one. He had _invented_ them after all. But he’d at least managed a few hours of sleep. Pepper had said he wouldn't get sex for the next month if he didn't start looking after himself.

“I’m afraid it’s more severe than that. Captain Rogers has reported the StarkPad he took from you can’t be found and he asked me to trace what happened to it. That was when I discovered that the failures in my system are far more widespread than we suspected. I've run a self diagnostis and the results are that I do not have access to several systems.”

“Okay. What systems are we talking about?”

“I no longer have access to the surveillance systems in the elevators and certain areas of the tower, including communal living areas.”

Tony cleared his screen and called up the results of JARVIS's self diagnostis. Most systems checked out, but yes, he was right. There were gaps in JARVIS’s control, more than just the intermittent glitches in control. The areas that came back with problems were the communal kitchen, the living room and the elevator shaft were affected.

He pursed his lips as he rose and emptied his espresso, heading for the elevator. This had to have something to do with whoever it was that Natasha and Bucky suspected was watching them. He ran through scenarios in his head, thinking about the affected areas and the glitches. The only reasonable conclusion was that there was someone _physically_ in the tower, using the gaps in JARVIS’s surveillance to move around. He fired off a quick text to Natasha and Bucky so they could make sure to plan for that in whatever trap they were laying.

So far, whomever the intruder was, he hadn’t made any moves against them, even with ample opportunity. Either they were waiting for the perfect moment, or the Avengers weren’t the target. They all had counted on JARVIS monitoring Clint for their safety and his, but JARVIS could no longer be trusted. As he rode down to the level where they were keeping Clint, he deliberated calling for backup, but that would probably arouse suspicion. So he continued on his own, punching in the code to let himself into the outer area.

Inside his cell, Clint had removed his shirt and was doing push-ups, but not the ones Tony did sometimes. He had his feet on his bunk, crossed at the ankles, one arm on his back and was pushing himself up with only one arm. Damn. The archery wasn’t the only reason for Clint’s impressive arms, then. When Clint sensed that someone was there, he finished his current push-up and hopped to his feet.

“Hey, don’t let me stop you. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay with you.”

Clint reached for the towel he had and draped it over his shoulders, partially hiding his upper body as he wiped up the sweat his work out had generated.

“I'm Tony, by the way. I don’t think we’ve ever met without the others.” Clint didn’t answer, just watched Tony carefully. Tony glanced around the cell, a little unnerved at Clint’s unblinking stare. He wrinkled his nose at what he saw. Yeah, he’d helped design the cell, but he hadn’t realized how barren it was until he saw someone living in it.

Clint still hadn’t said anything, so Tony looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. “So is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” He pulled his shirt back on over his head.

“You sure? Looks kind of boring in there.”

Clint shook his head, smiling slightly. “Steve brings me books. I’m all set.”

“Okay then.” Tony smiled and turned to leave the room when he heard the prisoner's voice again.

“How come you came down to ask me?”

Tony stopped back and looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“You’re watching me, right?” He gestured to where the cameras were. “You can see everything, and I’d bet hear everything. Why come and ask me in person.”

“We’ve had a few problems with the surveillance. Just wanted to check and make sure everything was fine down here.” Tony wiped over his face with one hand and took a deep breath.

“Problems with the surveillance system?” Clint stepped up to the glass wall, placing one hand against it, looking grimly serious and intent.

Tony frowned. “Yes. Why?”

“Have you checked the vents?” He cocked his head slightly.

“The vents? No. Why?” He turned around, stepping closer to the glass.

“Because if it were me, I'd use the vents.”

“The vents?” Tony thought he understood what Clint was getting at, and he didn’t like the idea at all.

“In buildings like this, the vents have to be big in order to keep fresh air circulating. That means that they’re big enough to move through. No one bothers to check them and they’re a good place to hide. That means you can move around without detection. Like I said, if it were me, I'd use the vents.” He gestured at the air outlet behind Tony. 

Damn it. Tony needed to get ahold of Natasha and Bucky. “I’ll check on that. Thanks.”

Without a second to lose, he turned on his heel and headed back up to the main levels. Once he was in his lab, which he knew was secure, he messaged all of the others. This was something they needed to know about and put a stop to. Then he turned his attention to figuring out how to put a stop to whatever was messing with JARVIS.

***

22-05 was in the elevator shaft when his phone started to vibrate. He took the call immediately.

“Sir,” he said and sat up straigth.

“22-05. New mission objectives. Destroy the tower’s mainframe and eliminate 13-98. Do you copy?”

“Yes, sir. Copy that.”

22-05 ended the call and put his phone away. He opened the small case he had with him and looked at its contents. The explosives he needed to destroy the hardware and a gun. He wasn't one of those mindless “tools”, but he knew how to kill, and with a pleased expression on his face he started to crawl through the vents down to the floor where Stark had his servers.


	30. Chapter 30

“What the...” Natasha glared at the message she just got from Tony. The vents? Why should she check the _vents_? Why should _she_ check the vents? The message wasn't really informative. Just: **Check the vents around the elevator and in the kitchen. Tony.**

“What's wrong?” Bucky asked when he saw her expression. She handed him the phone and he read the message as well.

“The vents?” He frowned and looked at Nat.

“Come on, let's check the vents.” Natasha sighed when Bucky held her back.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered very quietly and in Russian and waited for a second but the noise didn't come back. Natasha shook her head but eyed the ceiling suspiciously. Bucky raised his brow and went to the vent. As quiet as possible he opened the lid and then he cursed. Natasha was at his side a second later. They both saw traces in the dust. Someone had been there.

“Jarvis, tell the others to activate their comm units,” Bucky said but the AI kept quiet.

“Fuck!” Natasha already ran to the stairs while Bucky sent a message to the other’s phones to warn them.

***

22-05 arrived at the server room and he saw one of them, Stark, working at one of the servers. He knelt in front of it but 22-05 couldn't see what he did, he only saw his back. But when his phone beeped he sat back and looked at it. “We have an intruder? Jarvis? Jarvis?” But 22-05 had activated one of the viruses he had gotten from Chief and the virus cut the AI's voice output.

They knew about him, he thought. Time to act fast.

As quiet as possible – and 22-05 could be very quiet – he left the vent while Stark still muttered at his phone and apparently wrote a message but before he could send it 22-05 had hit him on the head. The man crumpled down and 22-05 shoved him aside, frisked him and tied his hands with his own belt just in case that he woke up.

22-05 opened his bag and grabbed the semtex and the detonator. He knew how to place a bomb. He was a cleaner after all and as fast as possible he readied his bomb, set it for ten minutes and left the server room. He ignored the fact that the man, Stark, was still in there, tied and unconscious.

He sneaked to the door where he knew that they held 13-98 behind and opened it with the key he had found in Stark's pocket. The traitor was in a cell and 22-05 assumed that he couldn't just shoot him through the glass he was locked behind. But as soon as he entered the room 13-98 rose. He had seen him before and the traitor recognized him as well. He seemed shocked to see him here but didn't bother to say anything. 13-98 knew exactly why he was here.

There was a code lock beside the door and 22-05 opened the covering, took a tablet out of his bag and connected it with the lock. He activated a program and placed the tablet on the floor before he took his gun, checked it, chambered a round and waited for the door to open. It took just a few seconds while 13-98 prowled behind the glass like a caged animal and glared at him. But the moment the door opened both stayed where they were. No one made the first move. And then the door behind him got torn open.

***

When Steve read Bucky's message about the intruder he left the control room at the communal floor hastily and ran to the stairs. He didn't want to take the elevator since he had a good idea what the intruder had in mind. Clint had told him that they would try to get him and Steve wanted to make sure that he was safe. When he opened the door to the floor he saw Natasha entering the server room straight ahead and he ran to the door at the left side. He tore open the door and then it was as if hell broke loose. A guy with a gun stood in front of Clint's cell and the glass door was open. But the small distraction of him entering was enough. Clint lunged out. The man with the gun aimed and shot twice. Steve could hear a painful groan but then the man's arm got thrown up and he lost the gun.

The other guy used his leg to kick Clint with it but then he moved at him and Steve could only stare for a few seconds. They hit and kicked and punched at each other in a breath-taking speed and ferocity and when Steve finally moved after only a fraction of a moment Clint wrapped his arm around the other man's throat and choked him.

“Clint!” he yelled. He didn't want him to kill the other man and when he looked up at him he let the attacker slump down, felt his pulse and nodded brief. And then the fire alarm went off.

***

Clint pretended to read but he watched Stark leaving. As soon as the man left, though, he rose and started to prowl. The malfunction in the surveillance system, in the AI... _they_ were here. He swallowed and tried to get his pulse back under control. He knew that they were coming, he just hoped, that the woman, Natasha, would hold her word. He sat down again and breathed a few times, in, in, in, in, out, repeat, repeat.

It didn't take too much time till someone came in. A man, mid-twenties, black hair, taller than him and dressed in black, functional clothes. Clint knew him. He had seen him. He didn't know who he was but he knew that he had seen him before and that he was one of them. Clint rose. The man had a gun with him and he connected the code lock with his tablet to unlock the door. It took only a few seconds but when it was open, the man didn’t move at first. Steve had told him that the glass was bullet proof so he had to come in if he wanted to kill him.

Clint didn't want to go back, definitely not, but he didn't want to die either. He watched the man, saw him deliberate his options... and then someone tore the door open. Clint didn't look. The guy flinched for a millisecond – no assassin apparently – and that was all Clint needed. He attacked him and the guy shot. The first bullet missed him but the second grazed his side under the arm and left a wound over his ribs. It hurt like a bitch, the thin shirt did nothing to stop the projectile. But then Clint was on him. He hit on the guy's arm and he lost the gun but got immediately in fighting position.

Clint punched his ribs and then he let him land a few kicks and blows to check out his style. But when he hit back he landed quite a few blows with his fists, his elbow, knees and feet before the guy made a tiny mistake and Clint had him in a headlock.

“Clint!” Someone yelled and he looked up when he felt the attacker lose consciousness. He waited the few seconds till he was sure that he was out cold and then he let him slump down. Steve looked at him completely shocked but he ignored it for the moment and checked the guy at his feet. He was alive.

Just as he rose and nodded at Steve, the fire alarm went off. Steve looked at the door, came over, shouldered the unconscious man and then gestured at Clint to follow him.

***

The timer said three minutes and forty-three seconds when Natasha activated the fire alarm and Bucky wrapped his arm around Tony to get him out. That bastard had knocked him out, had tied him and left for dead. She followed Bucky out into the corridor when the door to the room, where they had locked Barton in, went open. Steve came out and had an unconscious man over his shoulder and Barton was close behind him.

“What's wrong?” Steve asked when he looked at them and Tony.

“There's a bomb and the fire alarm is the fastest way to get all the people out,” Bucky said and moved to the staircase.

“Can I see the bomb?” Clint asked. He didn’t follow them to the stairs and when the other three Avengers – Tony was still out cold – realized it, they looked at each other for a small second. But then Steve nodded at Natasha. 

“Come with me,” Natasha said. Bucky and Steve continued their way to the stairs but she gestured with her head at Clint and he followed her to the server room. Two minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Barton didn't hesitate, he knelt in front of the bomb and looked at the wiring.

“Can you disarm it?” Natasha looked over his shoulder and Barton nodded slowly.

“It's a bit different than my set-ups but yes, I...” he trailed off while following a wire with his finger, “... can do that.”

Two minutes and eleven seconds.

He followed the wire and muttered slightly under his breath but then he turned.

“Do you have a knife?”

Natasha raised her brow but without comment she took one out of her boot and handed it to him. Barton took it and turned back to the detonator.

One minute, forty-six seconds.

“Okay... don't panic,” Barton murmured and cut the first wire. The countdown sped up.

One minute, twenty-one seconds.

“I don't panic,” Natasha said but she had to admit that she had a queasy feeling about this. Barton muttered something and cut the next wire. The countdown went faster.

Fifty-eight seconds.

“Almost... done,” he bowed to the side to get to a wire behind the detonator and Natasha saw him bite his tongue. He cut the wire and the timer sped up one more time.

Thirty-six seconds.

“You sure that you know what you're doing?” Natasha couldn't repress but the man ignored her and cut one last wire and the timer stopped at twenty-three seconds.

“Yep,” he said, rose in a fluid motion, turned around and looked at her. Natasha had seen him fight against Steve and the guy was really good. He even managed to smack the super-soldier down. But after all what he told them that was what he had done the last fifteen years, training hand-to-hand combat and shooting when he didn't have to kill people. And now he stood in front of her with her knife in his hand. They looked at each other for a long moment and the queasy feeling in Natasha's guts was still there. She knew he could take her out without even breaking into a sweat but then he smiled, turned the knife around and handed it to her, hilt first. She released the breath and put the knife back to her boot before she gestured at the door and together they went down to meet with the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, this chapter was edited by myself. I tried to get in touch with V. who did the amazing editing for the story so far but... well... But I didn't want to leave the story unfinished and so I decided to post the rest "unedited".


	31. Chapter 31

As Steve and Bucky talked to a few firefighters and policemen milling outside of the building, Natasha led Clint towards the parked ambulance. They heard Tony’s dulcet tones before they saw him, glaring at the EMT’s for all his (admittedly outstanding) worth. Natasha refused to roll her eyes at her fellow Avenger’s childishness, but it was tempting. The dark suits of a few SHIELD-agents caught her eye as they walked amongst the crowd. Coulson was here, too. 

“What happened?” he asked the moment he was close enough. Bucky pointed at the unconscious, captured man, guarded by two SHIELD-agents.

“He placed a bomb, tried to kill Tony and Hawkeye and he stole data.” He gave Coulson the vanished StarkPad they had found in his bag. When Natasha sensed Coulson's eyes on her she shook her head and pointed with her thumb at Clint.

“He disarmed it.” Coulson gave the man beside her a careful glance before nodding.

“Jameson, send the bomb squad in,” he said to the agent that drove him. “You know how to disarm bombs?” Coulson turned to Clint and the younger man nodded.

“It wasn't my main focus but yes, I've had to learn how to build a bomb and if you build it you need to know how to disarm it,” he admitted. “Luckily I've had to use them only twice and they were small enough to just take out the mark and no one else. Not like this one.” He looked over his shoulder at the building. “This one would've destroyed the whole floor and you can imagine what would've happened afterwards.”

“Helicarrier,” was everything Coulson said and Natasha understood. Steve and Bucky came over to them and Coulson already was on his phone, calling Sitwell to take over the investigation and cleaning-up here.

“Where are Bruce and Thor?” Steve asked, looking around for his friends.

“Bruce is, as far as I know, today at the carrier and Dr. Foster needed Thor's knowledge about the nine realms,” Bucky said.

“Yeah, as if his knowledge about wormholes is everything she needs,” Stark muttered when he came over to them. This time Natasha rolled her eyes.

“Okay, helicarrier it is,” Bucky grinned and rubbed his hands.

***

“So, why are all of us here?” Bruce asked and turned to Fury. Steve sat beside Clint whose hands were cuffed to the armrests of his chair. After all, the last time he had tried to murder Fury and the man didn't want to take any further chances. They all turned when finally Thor entered and the Avengers were complete.

“Because _they_ are a pain in the ass and I'm fed up to my back teeth with them, that's why,” Fury said and folded his hands over his stomach. “They try to kill me, they try to kill my team...”

“...they try to blast away my tower...” Tony murmured.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.” Fury rose and placed both hands on the table. “But he's right. And now it's enough. It's time for us to hit back. The sooner the better.”

“Seriously? That's what we’ve been trying to do, Fury. We collect everything what we can find about them but they are like, intangible! At least, I've found a few names. What have you done so far?” Tony raised his brow while he glared at Fury.

“I've charged Maria with finding their base. But since you gave Agent Coulson the required information just an hour ago she hasn’t found it yet.”

“Agent Hill herself?” Bruce asked, frowned, and Coulson nodded.

“We're not sure whom we can trust, so only those who needs to know get to know,” he explained.

“It's probably best to keep it that way,” Steve nodded and leaned back in his chair. He folded his arms in front of his chest to prevent himself from reaching over to take Clint's hand. The man felt obviously uncomfortable in Fury’s presence whilst at such a disadvantage. He eyed the cuffs restraining him again. 

“Okay, so what do you know about this guy? We need everything you can tell us,” Fury addressed Clint directly for the first time. Clint licked his lips and swallowed, looking at Steve for a second in time to see his nod before he turned his head back to Fury.

“I've mentioned it before that contact between assets was forbidden. I've seen him but I wasn't allowed to talk to him. His handler was even scarier than Suit. But can you give me his serial?” He asked and when Fury furrowed his brows he raised his hand to point but got stopped by the cuffs. “The number on his neck,” he said then and placed his hand carefully on the armrest.

Fury looked at Coulson as he reached for the folder on the table in front of him, opened it and looked at a sheet. “C-22-05-Lpe559-δ-472,” he said and Clint nodded.

“That's what I've thought. He's a Cleaner. Their job is to erase mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” Tony frowned now. “You mean, to find out about their existence and capturing one of their ki... their, well, employees? Mistakes like that?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Clint nodded and Tony pursed his lips. “But also if one of us fucks it up.”

“Do you know by chance what all those numbers mean?” Coulson asked and Clint shook his head slowly.

“Not all of them. I know that 22-05 is what he gets called, the delta means that he lives in delta section and 472 is his room, fourth floor, corridor seven, room two.” Clint explained. “I don't know what the other numbers mean.”

“How many sections are there?” Fury wanted to know and Clint took a deep breath.

“I don't know. I've only been in lambda, theta, sigma and iota.” He once again tried to move his hand but when the handcuff stopped him he licked his lips again. Steve watched him and when he saw his nervous glances he nodded encouraging with a smile.

“Lambda is where my room is, theta is the trainings section, medical is on sigma and iota is equipment,” he added. Fury sighed, wiping his hand over his face. He leaned back in his chair and just sat there for a moment, looking at his team. But just as he opened his mouth a sharp knock rang out. Maria Hill opened the door, nodded at Fury and took an empty chair.

“Was the information helpful?” Coulson asked and Maria half shrugged, half nodded.

“It's difficult since they were very vague. I've found about forty-six possible locations in just an hour. I need more precise data,” she sighed, looked around, saw the thermos jug on the table and rose to get a mug. She poured herself some coffee and sat down again, took a long sip and sighed again, this time more content than before.

“Okay, we need a description from the site as detailed as possible,” Fury said and looked at Clint.

“How many buildings are outside?” Tony asked and Clint shifted in his chair, licked his lips.

“Well, there are four smaller buildings. They are the entrances. Two bigger buildings but I've never been in them. Between one of the bigger buildings and...” he started to explain but Tony shook his head.

“No,” he snapped and when Clint shrank back slightly, Steve threw a deadly glare in his direction. He raised his hands apologetically. But then he reached over to Coulson's file, grabbed the first sheet of paper and turned it around and took the pen he had on the table, too. He placed both in front of Clint. “Can you outline it?” He asked, this time his voice was softer. Clint looked at Steve again, raised his left hand and the cuff stopped it after a few inches. Tony turned to Fury and after a long glare the Director nodded. Coulson reached into his pocket and handed Tony the keys but when he wanted to open the cuffs Clint seemed uncomfortable. S Tony gave Steve the keys and sat down again while Steve opened the cuff.

Clint took the pen and started to draw and about half a minute later he shoved the paper to Steve who looked at it and gave it to Maria. She pursed her lips and then smiled.

“Yes, that's helpful,” she nodded, emptied her mug and rose to leave again. Steve didn't close the handcuff again and Fury didn't say a word about it. He just leaned back, his hand on his chin and one finger over his lips.

“What can we do now?” Bruce asked and folded his hands on the table.

“We can't go back to the tower,” Natasha said and Bucky nodded slowly.

“You stay here, on the carrier,” Fury said, matter-of-factly and Tony shook his head vehemently.

“No, I can't stay here. And what about...” he started but Fury raised his hand, cut him short.

“We'll send agents to protect Ms Potts and Mr Hogan.” When Thor opened his mouth he added quickly, “That applies to everyone who's close to anyone of you.” But then Thor frowned.

“These men, did they not send someone to masquerade as nurse here? Is it not possible that they sent someone to pose as an agent as well? What if you send one of them to protect our friends?” All the glances turned to Fury, only Clint looked at his hands.

“Does everyone have the tattoo in their neck?” Fury asked and Clint took a deep breath.

“As far as I know, yes. At least, everyone I had to deal with had had one. Except the doctors. I don't know about the higher ranks, though.”

“This is so fucked up,” Bucky muttered quietly under his breath but everyone had heard him.

“You remove Pepper and Happy and Rhodey to a safe place. I'll help Agent Hill to find them in the meantime,” Tony stated and rose. Fury didn't stop him.

“But Tony's right, sir,” Natasha added, her hands folded over her stomach. “In the end we can't trust anyone and the faster we get them the better for everyone.”

“Agent Coulson, you're going to select the agents for this mission and Mr. Barton,” Clint winced slightly, “can help you. If there's one of them - - does your organization even have a name?” Fury interrupted himself.

“They only told me that I'm now the property of the SCI. They never explained what that meant,” Clint said and Steve shifted uncomfortable in his chair and Fury cleared his throat.

“I'll call a few people,” Natasha said. Fury knew that she still had contacts in circles he never wanted to think too closely about. They were helpful sometimes, though. When he nodded she rose and left the room as well.

“Agent Barnes, Captain, I want you two to talk to our prisoner. Agent Coulson, you take Mr Barton to select the agents we need. Dr Banner, maybe you can help Mr Stark and Agent Hill in finding this _SCI_ and Thor, I want to talk to you in private. Dismissed.”

**Author's Note:**

> [asamandra on tumblr](http://asamandra.tumblr.com/)


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